


The Harvelle Gospels: Off Script

by LaurytheLatrator



Series: The Harvelle Gospels [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Feels, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Retelling, Righteous Woman Jo Harvelle, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-08 09:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 52,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12251781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurytheLatrator/pseuds/LaurytheLatrator
Summary: She and Sam are fresh from an encounter with some djinn and headed back to the Roadhouse II. Sam drives with the window down to let the wind ruffle his hair, longer by the day. There’s pop music drifting low out of Baby’s speakers, from the first gen iPod he loaded up with all — both of their favorites. A year’s gone by and she still has to skip whenever Houses of the Holy comes on.The Apocalypse is averted, the angels are in Heaven, and Jo is free from the threat of possession. Somehow it couldn't be farther from a happy ending.





	1. 2011

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This has been an endeavor that occupied most of a year. I took a break after getting through the first draft, and returned to revise it recently. I'm finally ready to release this novel into the world.
> 
> I don't expect many people to read it, I get that it's not exactly pandering to the fandom. But I like it, and I think enough people enjoyed the first installment to enjoy this.
> 
> Speaking of, you should definitely read the first Harvelle Gospel. The end of that went very AU from the show, and this takes the division between Canon and AU and runs wild.

 

_The thing about Earth is... the whole ‘Chosen One’ trope is a complete myth. In reality, no one man — and it so often is a man in these tales— is put on a pedestal or possesses incredible powers of luck or is the last hope for humanity. Humans are like insects — Bees, if you will. Kill the queen, another rises to take its place. Every human is equally dispensable and indispensable to the whole species._

_Some might_ _think_ _that’s what makes them great. Others would disagree._

_In reality, it just makes storytelling very complex._

 

* * *

 

 _So it goes_. Dean used to say that, quoted it from his favorite book. Vonnegut always seemed pretentious and _Slaughterhouse Five_ sounded depressing as Hell. Jo never got why he loved it.

Now maybe she understands.

She and Sam are fresh from an encounter with some djinn and headed back to the Roadhouse II. Sam drives with the window down to let the wind ruffle his hair, longer by the day. There’s pop music drifting low out of Baby’s speakers, from the first gen iPod he loaded up with all — both of their favorites. A year’s gone by and she still has to skip whenever _Houses of the Holy_ comes on.

The question must come from somewhere deep, because Jo has no idea she’s been thinking it until it’s out. “Do you think we’re doing anything?”

Sam glances at her and turns down the volume. “We’re hunting. Same thing we’ve always done, what our parents did. We saved those people back there, that matters.” Too logical and too quick, even for Sam. The answer’s prepared, which means he’s been wondering too.

“We’re not moving forward,” Jo says, looking out the windshield. All the highways are identical to her, one big circuit from California to Maine.

“He told us to do good,” Sam reiterates. It came from the mouth of his big brother, so it may as well be gospel. Jo wants to believe him, that they’re abiding by Dean’s request, but it’s getting harder and harder. She longs for peace, for a way out, for something she can’t name…

_Anna…_

She aborts the prayer, if it was even that. More like a formless void of thought and emotion.

Besides who knows what the angel’s up to. It’s got to be more important than Jo.

 

* * *

 

Anna leads two of her most trusted angels unto the breach. They are waveforms of light and sound and glory forcing themselves between atoms and dimensions until finally…

She beholds her long-lost brother, lounging in an opulent replica of an ancient Roman throne room, amongst a harem of humanoid males and females, sipping wine and recieving oral sex.

“This is vile,” Her general, Hester, spits, eyeing the revelry. It catches the attention of the Archangel.

“Oh great,” Gabriel bemoans, “It’s you clowns.”

“Please cease this illusion,” Her other sibling, Hannah, requests. She is more queasy than incensed.

“Illusion? Do you know how hard I had to search for a Greco-Roman alternate reality where all the humans are illimitability horny for my bod? Like, not _terribly_ hard, but—”

“Gabriel,” Anna says curtly, and her brother must retain some decency, because he stops the movements of the human and stands imperiously. With a wave of his hand, they disperse, and the Archangel stands before his inferiors.

“Morning Angels,” He says with an inflection Anna can’t place. Their brother must read their confusion. “You know, I’m Charlie? You three are in female vessels? Forget it.” He shakes and ambles closer to them, nonchalance radiating from him. “What’s happenin’? Apocalypse blow over, or…?”

“We imprisoned Michael and Lucifer in the Cage, but Raphael has taken over the Host and is threatening to continue their legacy.”

“Is that all? Silly Ralph. You want me to have a talk with him, right?”

Hester cannot stop the curl of her lip as she addresses their errant brother. “That would be wise, yes.”

“Well, I’ll do my best, but Raphael always was a stick in the primordial mud, not sure how much good it’ll do.” He stretches in an almost feline manner, vertebrae popping obscenely. It’s clear to Anna that the connection between his grace and the physicality of his vessel is discomfiting to the other angels. They are new to inhabiting bodies in space.

In an effort to defuse tension, she says, “Thank you, brother. The war has been waging for years in Heaven, so we’d appreciate it if we move fast.”

“How’re Jo and the brothers Grimm, anyway?” Gabriel asks idly. Or, she assumes it’s with idle curiosity. There must be some measure of emotion driving his inquiry. It sets her on the defensive.

“I rescued Dean Winchester from Hell,” Anna informs him, attempting not to boast, “And though I have not checked in with Jo, I assume they are fine.”

His expression is neutral, but not the blankness of most angels. This is a carefully constructed mask which leaves no doubt that there’s more beneath its surface. “We’ll have to pop ‘round with a gift basket.”

“Whatever you’re implying, don’t. There’s no use for the Michael Sword now, she should be free to live her life without the interference of Heaven.”

“Honey, her whole life is due to the interference of Heaven. It’s kinda why she was _born_.”

 

* * *

 

Life is a lot simpler than most people have been lead to believe. From the minute you’re born people try and tell you what you’re supposed to do with your brief time on this rock, but all roads lead to Rome. You eat, you shit, you sleep, and you spend the time in between lying to yourself and everyone else. _I’m happy, I’m fine, I’m good_. Sooner or later, but more often the former, you die.

Dean is now one of a few exceptions.

He reflects, downing his overpriced whiskey, that he wasted so much time on trying to _be a good person_ , whatever that means. Since his miraculous resurrection, it’s like the wool’s been pulled from his eyes. He shoulda spent more time trying to _be happy_. That’s what most of these folks are doing.

And, he adds to himself when he locks eyes with the shapeshifter’s reflective gaze in the mirror, there can’t be anything wrong with doing what you love.

“Hey buddy,” He calls down the bar, gets the shifter’s attention, and clicks the safety off his Colt .45. The bullet goes straight out the back of his head. Everyone else, and it's a decent crowd, maybe two dozen, start screaming their heads off. Dean figures, _what the Hell_ , and fires another shot into the ceiling.

“Calm down,” He says into the ringing silence, “I only came for him. I got no beef with you folks.” Actually, maybe he's being careless. You can't tell a human by their windpipes. Turning, Dean levels his aim on the bartender with the plunging neckline, and her pallor goes all the way down. “On second thought… lemme see you bleed.”

 

* * *

 

If you asked their neighbors, the Novaks were ‘good people’. They went to church every sunday and mass on the holidays. You could always count on Amelia if you needed a last minute babysitter, or to chip in for a cause, or to send condolence cards with homemade scones. Jimmy was a solid provider and a devoted father, who dropped his daughter off at the junior high and attended all her school plays.

It was because they were so well liked that folks accepted Jimmy’s twin Casey’s miraculous reappearance with sincere expressions of relief and only faint flutterings of gossip.

Castiel can hear them. He may no longer be an angel, but he’s never been fully human. The thoughts and feelings of the quiet town crowd into his cavernous mind despite his best efforts.

Jimmy and Amelia now bear two new tattoos: one to ward against demonic possession, the other against angelic sight. While Cas worried about Claire, it was unanimous that a 13 year old should not be needlessly inked. It would also involve informing his niece about demons, and angels, and all the other monsters lurking under her bed. No one wanted that if they could help it.

Jimmy and Amelia Novak were good people, and so they accepted Cas’ stories without doubting his sanity. Jimmy was so relieved to have his twin back, human or not. They settled back into domestic life with nary a hiccup. Cas no longer has his bee colonies — his plot of land was sold over a year ago — and so contents himself with working at the local Gas N Sip. Though his family offers no pressure, he is determined to relocate from his brother’s couch.

He doesn’t hear a peep from Jo Harvelle, or Sam Winchester, or Heaven.

Circumstances are ideal.

Until one morning when Jimmy and Amelia have left for work, and Claire to school, and Cas is alone to answer the two-tone doorbell. The demon’s true face, twisted, vile, grins blood red.

“Hello, Clarence.”

 

* * *

 

Crowley is nothing if not opportunistic. It’s not so much the fall of Lucifer that creates the void, as it is Azazel, Lilith, and all the other demons who worked their cute tushes off and got massacred by angels and hunters alike. Now that she’s — he’s? Crowley’s never been sure what the female vessel-to-pronoun cause-and-effect situation was — safely ensconced in the Cage, all the demons are back to twiddling their thumbs. Deals get done, mayhem ensues, but Hell is a wreck. It requires a firm hand, and Crowley is at least two things: opportunistic, and _firm_.

Hell used to be fire and brimstone, but that cliche was hardly practical. The new souls braced for it. It takes some doing, but Crowley manages to retool the void to inhabit the most soul crushing experience he knows: boredom, mind-numbing absolute _drudgery_. The souls’ energy gets whittled away without them knowing, and soon they’re begging for any change of scenery, and Crowley has a whole new batch of demons, loyal solely to him. It sure beats skulking on crossroads and tonguing strange bastards.

His dominion is quiet, the way he prefers, until one moment when he is breached by a pillar of heavenly light. Crowley, were he not a demon, would be praying or otherwise settling his affairs. As it happens, he’s relatively content, and feels no need to grovel.

“Well well,” He greets with a tip of his scotch glass, “To what do I owe the inevitable smiting?”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t help you,” Cas repeats. The demon is polluting his family’s living room and it rankles. His angel blade, no longer residing in the ether, is hidden in the closet across the room, and he doesn’t think he can risk running for it yet.

The demon, Meg, heaves a sigh that stinks of sulphur. “I came to you in peace, because I think you’re rational, not like those trigger happy hunters or your bird brain cousins. I have information that could save the world, and you’re gonna pass it up to keep playing house? Geez, what are you even doing with these meat sacks? This life can’t be fulfilling to someone who's fought Holy Wars.”

“It is _precisely—_ ” Castiel cuts himself off. It’s unwise to give the demon any insight, as it’s only ammunition to her. He breathes, reminds himself he is essentially human, in the ways that matter. “The information you have cannot possibly be more alarming than the Apocalypse. I’m done with the machinations of Heaven and Hell, so anything short of total world destruction is not of import to me.”

Meg laughs, low, one might say sultry. “Right on the money, honey.”

Castiel regards her; he detects no deception. “What is it?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Meg rises and crosses the room. She comes close to putting her hands on him, but stops when Cas flinches. “Tetchy. Anyway, I need you to come with me. The longer I stay in one place, ah—”

“You’re being hunted,” He surmises.

Meg wrinkles her nose. “Not by any of your ex-buddies. But I guess you could say I’m a persona non grata in Hell.”

“Why?”

“I was unapologetically Team Lucy. The new Boss isn’t exactly forgiving.”

Castiel takes a moment to consider, but in reality he knows his choice. It has always been his choice to protect the Earth. Dean died to prevent the Apocalypse. Though it is a gamble to trust Meg, he cannot risk it.

“Very well. I will come with you.” Meg smiles, and this time he allows her touch. It’s a soft chuff, a glancing blow off his arm. Comradely. Is that what they are now, he shudders to think. “But first I must speak with my family. Do you have a cell phone.” She squints, amused, and nods. They exchange numbers, and he says, “Go, find a place to hole up, and I’ll meet you tonight.”

The few hours after Meg leaves is spent gathering his things. Even in a year of returning home, he hasn’t amassed much; some clothes, a few novels, simple warding spells, a legally purchased handgun, and his angel blade. It’s almost as though he’d been waiting for this.

He’s sitting on the couch, hands clasped, when Claire walks in. She’s old enough and Pontiac is quiet enough that she walks home from school. She’ll be entering High School next year. His heart pangs at what he will miss.

“Cas?” Claire says once she spots him. It had taken some time for his family to stop calling him Casey. Dropping her book bag with alarm, she moves to his side. “What’s the matter? You look…”

Cas shakes his head. “Claire, I need to leave.”

Her eyes widen. “What! You can't! You just got back!” She grabs hold of his hands as if to keep him there with her pubescent strength. It might even work.

“There are things I need to do. Important things. I… I wish I didn’t have to.” He leans over and presses a kiss to her blonde hair. She’s been experimenting with curling it. It tickles. “It won’t be like before. I have a phone, you can call me, or text. For any reason.”

She lets out a shuddering breath, and a whisper, “I don’t understand.”

Castiel shuts his eyes and hates himself. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

“This is your base of operations?” Gabriel questions as he inspects their slice of Heaven. “Dive Bar Mach One?” They’ve regrouped, although Anna has lost the rest of her posse. Entering his old home like a thief in the night was undignified yet necessary, if Raphael’s tyranny is to be believed.

“Uh, bruh, don’t knock the Roadhouse. This baby’s mint.” The Archangel lifts his brow at the soul who spoke. It identifies itself as Miles Ashmore, looking like a washed up roadie, brimming with intellect. For a human, anyway.

He smirks at Anna, tipping his head in the soul’s direction. “It’s infested. You might want to relocate your pet if you don’t want Raphael incinerating it.” Anna is, as ever, unamused. Gabriel is growing more and more determined to make her crack.

“Ash is a unique tool,” She tells him, ignoring ‘Ash’s’ offense, “Somehow he’s able to pass through other humans’ Heavens and transport them. He also—”

“I’m _also_ ,” Ash steps in to speak for himself, “The one keeping track of all your angel blabbing.” Under Gabriel’s gaze he explains, “Took me all of about a month to tap into that ‘angel radio’ you use. Little bit after that to become fluent in Enochian.” He ducks under the manifestation of the bar and pulls out… to him it would appear a computer, but to angels it’s a collection of wavelengths, caught up in a coil, neat and untangled, undulating as everyone speaks at once.

Gabriel lets his admiration show. “Sweet.”

“Totally. This baby’s saved Anna’s ass more’n a couple times now. Getting an advance notice on Raphael’s ambushes, crossing heavens, designing wards… brother, I’m the full package.”

“You got beer here, Ash?” The white trash look is complete when he procures PBR and clanks the cans down. Gabriel’s sold. The time for chit chat is over, so Gabriel takes a can and touches Anna’s elbow. He draws her away from Ash, speaking deliberately so that the human cannot hear. “You’ve been fighting guerilla girl style? Killing angels?”

She stands her ground; he’s always respected Anna, but she sure gets his goat. “Only when strategic.”

“The Apocalypse was supposed to end the killing.”

“Tell that to Raphael. He is the one attempting to break into the Cage.”

“Which,” Gabriel tilts his head, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about. You said you rescued Dean Winchester from Hell?” Anna nods. “Tell me.”

“The Cage was newly sealed. Without a clear leader, Hell was in a state of upheaval. I descended through the Pit and was able to slip through the cracks. It was… chaotic. Yet I was able to touch Dean’s body, I—”

“Anna, Anna, Anna,” Gabriel tuts with gravity, “Vessels don’t belong in the Cage. Michael and Lucy would be more powerful without them. They’d have cast them off but…” His brows draw together in concern. “Anna, are you positive you did not leave Dean Winchester behind?”

“I…” The appearance of Anna merely blanches, but Gabriel can see her true form quiver. She’s fearfully doubtful. Hubris may have blinded her before, but she knows to bow to her brother’s insight. “We have to go back.”

“No,” Gabriel insists, steely and sharp, “At this point, another breech into the Cage is going to alert Raphael, and that’s the exact opposite of our whole little powwow here.”

“Then what—”

“You called on me to speak with Raphael. Let me do that. You?” He fixes his expression into one of wry derision. “It’s time to pussy up and call your ex-girlfriend.”

 

* * *

 

_See what I mean? Complicated._

_Oh you don’t get it?_

_All of that took place roughly at the same time. A year of monotony and we’ve suddenly got all these inciting incidents._

_Time means very little for angels, so I suppose they could be forgiven for moving so swiftly. But for everyone else, it’s coincidence bordering on incredulity. We’ve got unusual alliances and broken families and one poor soulless bastard._

_It takes much longer for all these moving parts to collide. But don’t fret, we’re just getting started._

 

* * *

 

“These killings,” Sam insists for the fiftieth time, “Smack of angels, Jo. I mean, locusts? Old Testament smitings ringing any bells?”

Their argument continues down the same trajectory. “What would angels care about some crooked cops?” Jo says, falling backwards on the motel bed. Funds necessitate getting a single room with two twins, and if Sam weren’t practically her brother, things’d be a lot more awkward.

“I don’t know, but we should ask Anna.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? She’s busy.”

“Too busy to care about some possibly rogue angel killings?”

“Yes!” Jo shoots up, glaring at him. “Fine, you want proof? _Anna, Anna, wherefore art thou Anna? We’ve got some weird plague style shit going down here in Easter, PA and it’d sure be swell if_ —”

A rustle of feathers through air, followed by, “Hello Jo, Sam.”

Anna appears exactly the same; her red hair is slightly wind swept from her face, her blazer neatly buttoned, her eyes hazel and piercing and bringing the same ache to Jo’s gut.

“What the fuck, Anna?” Jo’s voice comes out low. “You only fluent in sarcasm now?”

There’s something tense about her face, an emotion Jo can’t place. It’s been too long. “I, ah, I have been meaning to contact you, but I—” She shuffles awkwardly towards the center of the room. Without a twitch in her expression, she deftly switches gears. “These plagues you mentioned,” She lifts her hand and in it is the jar of locusts from Sam’s desk, “They sound troubling. My informants reported a theft of heavenly weapons near the start of your year, including what you would call the Staff of Moses. That would seem to be the likely culprit.”

Sam scoffs, “You let someone make off with heavenly nukes?”

A familiar expression of annoyance passes over her. “I didn’t ‘let’ them. I’m not the sheriff of Heaven, that would be Raphael.”

“Wait, Dean said that’s the Archangel he and Cas trapped in Maine.”

“There’s much to explain,” Anna says, a strange note in her voice, “But first why don’t we work on tracking these weapons before more humans die.”

As deflections go, that’s a pretty solid one.

 

* * *

 

Balthazar has been leading an excellent existence since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. Earth is magnificent, and its inhabitants are a crash course in immorality and sin. He’s learned quite a lot.

Perhaps he ought to have known his luck would run out. When Anna and two of her hairless apes burst in, he sighs at the predictability of it all.

“You’re bargaining weapons of the Host for human souls,” Anna growls, with righteous might, “You’ve fallen so low, Balthazar.”

He claps his hands and simpers, “I learned it from watching you!” The humans get his reference, but it sails over his former commander’s head, so Balthazar rephrases. “Truly, there have been plenty of deserters and traitors among the Host, but none like you, Anna. You were the perfect soldier. Nobody saw it coming. It’s not any wonder you have Raphael in a tizzy. You’re _inspiring_.”

“You will stop interfering with human lives and return the soul you took.” Anna flexes her shoulders, and Balthazar cannot help but wince. She is without a doubt a powerful angel, and if she chooses to fight, he would surely lose. However, if he has to surrender, he’ll at least get the last word in.

“Funny you said nothing of returning the weapons. I suppose you’ll be wanting to round them up, confiscate them, and if they end up being used against Raphael and his supporters, more’s the better, eh?” The female ape gives Anna the stink eye. Bold, if that were Balthazar, he’d have made the twat cower. It’s fascinating to see what Anna allows in her pets.

“You cannot stay neutral in this war,” Anna tells him, a note of warning in her tone, “Raphael will come for you, weapons or no. Join me, and we have a chance to preserve the freedom you crave.”

Balthazar advances into Anna’s space. “It. Will. Never. End. Raphael’s gone mad with power, and if you win so will you, until there’s another coup d'etat, and another, and another. Heaven — _angels_ weren’t built for democracy. We are instruments of destruction and we shall kill each other for eternity without any other outlet.” He whirls away, gesturing with a limp wrist. “Now, me? I’ve chosen hedonism. You ought to try it.”

“Balthazar—” She’s cut off by a clap of thunder, and both angels tense. Anna says needlessly, “It’ll be Raphael, or one of his forces.”

“Then I best pop off.” He says, quickly taking mental stock of the weapons he can grab in the next couple milliseconds. He lands on Lot’s salt. Baltazar really wouldn’t mind getting one good shot in against the dick. “Tell Raphael to bite me.”

 

* * *

 

Anna has quite a lot on her mind following her encounter with Balthazar and Raphael. The former she suspects can be persuaded to join them, his sneak attack on the Archangel was effective and decisive. The latter is in need of a new vessel, and locating and persuading that vessel may take time. It’s a win, one that changes their trajectory, and she’ll have to adjust her plans accordingly.

But for now…

“Seeing you again has confirmed my worst fear,” Anna informs Jo and Sam once the humans have relocated to the Roadhouse. Bobby Singer, whom she remembers from the Apocalypse, has taken up ownership of the bar and resumed its function as a hub of hunter activity. He cleared out a back room, one with a round table she believes is used for gambling, for them to speak in.

“Well don’t keep it to yourself,” Jo grunts, her arms folded tightly. She’s been acting strangely since Anna’s return. It’s difficult returning to the human world, where emotions take such precedence over strategy, and yet the hunters rarely speak of them plainly.

“Following the encounter at Stull, I raised Dean from perdition.”

“What? _What_?!”

“Anna, are you sure—”

Bobby merely lets out a long string of colorful expletives.

“I thought I had,” Anna speaks, letting her true voice bleed through enough to silence them. “But, I’ve been told…. I must have made a mistake. If Dean Winchester was truly whole, I believe he would have contacted you.”

“What does that mean,” Sam asks, voice shaking, “ _Whole?_ ”

Anna feels her head dip, wonders if it mirrors contrition. “He may not have his soul.”

“How in the everloving—” Bobby shakes his head and starts again, “How can the boy be walking around without his soul?”

“He would have his body, his mind, his memories, but he would lack empathy, morality—”

“His humanity, is that what you mean, Anna?” Says Jo. Anna, figuring it’s as apt as any analogy, nods silently. “Prove it. Use those wings and bring him here.”

“I have tried. I can’t find him. Now that I’m looking… Angels visualize creatures primarily through their souls. He's dim to my sight among billions of lights, a burnt light bulb in New York City.”

“But Dean is alive,” Sam clarifies, his eyes shining, “We can find him, and then we can—”

“Get his soul outta the Cage?” Bobby interrupts. “The damn angel couldn’t manage that, how’re we supposed to—”

“I dunno, Bobby! We’ll figure something out! But Dean—”

“Anna,” Jo speaks, and the men cease bickering to listen, “What I gotta understand is, _why?_  Why did you try to rescue Dean without telling us? Hell, why didn’t you ever answer a damn prayer all year? You’d have realized Dean wasn’t here if you just _looked_. So why didn’t you?”

Of all the confessions she’s given lately, Anna was dreading this the most. It’s not an admission of failure as much as of sentiment.

“It was my intention never to burden you with the machinations of Heaven ever again.” She addresses Jo, looks solely at Jo, means the words to be understood by Jo and only Jo. “I didn’t know how to say goodbye. But I wanted to give you one more miracle. I wanted you to believe that Heaven loved you and would reward your courage and strength.”

“Get out.”

Anna takes a step back at the steel in her voice. “I don’t—”

Jo’s face is immobile, her body thrumming with energy, and her soul tangled in a knot of rage. “Get out of here. Go, and don’t come back, not unless we ask.”

Anna stalls for precious seconds by taking in the expressions of the others. Bobby has puffed up into a protective stance, but she can read the doubt in his mind at alienating a powerful ally. She and Bobby Singer are similarly pragmatic. Sam Winchester radiates pain, and Anna experiences a wave of it and generates regret to match it. Returning her gaze to Jo, this girl she came to care so much for, and receiving only her hate, Anna understands.

Anna retreats to the Roadhouse of Ash’s Heaven.

“Ash,” She asks of the human soul, “You have been monitoring the Winchesters’ Heaven. Dean isn’t there, is he?”

The man blows a long breath and shakes his hair about his shoulders. “Nah, no alerts have gone off. I can check for myself. Why? Do you know if he, uh, bit it since the last time?”

“Yes, but,” Anna cannot bring herself to explain, “He should be on Earth. If he isn’t, I will do everything to change that.”

She _is_ sorry for what she’s done. She can conceive of no way to make it right. The fight against Raphael no longer seems as monumental, but now it is her one outlet for atoning for her mistakes.

 

* * *

 

Gabriel waltzes into the Heavenly manor of a corporate bigwig and laments his brother’s lack of imagination. Dad really screwed the pooch when he cut angels from the same mold. That’s what makes life on Earth amazing, their infinite variety.

“I heard rumors of your return,” Raphael announces from a wingback chair, “But I dismissed them as fantasy.” Raphael is in his true form, which may indicate he is out of vessels at the moment. It makes his appearance stately, stern, powerful. All he needs is a cat to stroke menacingly to complete the look.

Gabriel, preferring to retain his human body, cocks his head. “And I heard rumors you were being a little bitch. Sounded plausible to me, bro.”

“You ought to watch your mouth,” Raphael says. Without a vessel, he doesn’t emote, but ripples with his intent. “If your return to Heaven is an attempt to challenge me, I’d advise against it. You and I are the last of the original echelon, and I do not wish to destroy you.”

“I’ve never wanted to rule Heaven, and you know it. But I did help stop the Apocalypse and I’m not interested in the sequel.” Gabriel approaches his brother, hands out. It’s a good sign that Raphael doesn’t react as if threatened. “Stop this. Let sleeping dogs lie. You can be King of Fools so long as angels stay here, and the Earth stays there.”

“The Host is directionless. How are we meant to exist without purpose? Our purpose was to herald the end, and I am tired, Gabriel, I am _so tired_ of waiting. Have you forgotten the promise of paradise? Paradise was meant for _us_ , our reward for our service, and a couple hundred special humans.”

“Paradise?” Gabriel laughs, dryly and unkind. “I’ve been making my own paradise for centuries. Whatever you imagine is at the end of the rainbow, I know it can’t be worth dooming billions of lives.”

“Then is this the way it shall be? I am to be Michael and you a poor substitute for the Morningstar?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Gabriel warns, all traces of humor lost, “Do not cast me as Lucifer. This isn’t pride talking. I am defending the humans, the angels, the deities, and the monsters from needless destruction, and you’re clinging to dead words. Do you even remember God? Can you be sure that paradise is what you believe it’ll be? Or has the memory of sitting on his knee been so warped by time that he could’ve said anything?”

“You believe I care about God.” If true angels could laugh, Raphael would be guffawing. “I shall do what I like. Free Will was a gift for the Archangels and humanity, and I shall strip it from these rebellious seraphs, and then from mankind, and then all of our Father’s creation will be beholden to my Will. Now that I see that you will not serve me of your Will, I know that I must kill you, brother. Believe that I am sorry.”

“I definitely don’t,” Gabriel says with a smile, “But thanks anyway.”

In one swift move, Gabriel sheds his benign appearance and attacks with piercing intent. Despite having transformed himself so far from his original being, Gabriel is hardly weak. Some aspects of his self have been strengthened through pagan means. So when Raphael evades him effortlessly and in a single blow severely damages his grace, Gabriel knows something’s up.

“Are you…” His true voice catches him off guard. It’s been so long it sounds like a stranger. He does the equivalent of clearing his throat. “Are you using… _souls_?”

“Noticed, have you? I’ll admit, you’re more perceptive than your little protege Anael. It is a shame you won’t live to alert her.”

Now that he isn’t hiding, Raphael allows himself to shine, nearly as bright as Lucifer once did. Gabriel can hardly make sense of it. He is… consuming what once was alive, keeping them from peace so that his grace can be supercharged.

“You’re perverting yourself, Raphael. To hold those souls… You’re behaving like a common demon. Is this how the ruler of Heaven keeps his power? Is this how you make a God?”

“I wouldn’t know, Trickster. How did you?”

No, Gabriel never did this, never jumpstarted his batteries like this. Pagans, the good deities, the ones with staying power, rely on living devotees. You can’t live off belief if you’re killing the believers in the process. Plus, Gabriel’s never personally murdered anyone who wasn’t absolute scum, far as he’s concerned.

Gabriel doesn’t have time to debate the semantics. Raphael is riding high on at least tens of thousands of ill-begotten souls, and he is fully capable of obliterating Gabriel. So he runs. He scatters himself to obfuscate his trail, and then he waits.

Gabriel always was a coward. This time he’s gonna use that to his advantage.

 

* * *

 

“Where is she?” Meg growls, her fingers digging into the throat of the vampire. “Your mother, where is she?”

The vampire is no match for her demonic strength, and it sputters as it attempts to claw her away. “D-d-don’t-t knuh… knuh…”

“That’s not a very smart answer,” Meg pouts, and she twists the beast’s neck sharply to put it out of her misery. She feels her partner coming up behind her, and as she turns, sees the vampire had another buddy they’d missed. “Down!”

Castiel drops without hesitation. Meg vaults over him to tangle with the ambushing vamp, and when they pivot, locked in combat, the vamp falls limp. The squelching sound of Castiel’s angel blade being removed from it’s back is immediately followed by it slumping to the ground. Meg twists its head for good measure.

“Yes, babydoll, yes!” She laughs buoyantly. The high of victory is pumping through her, which will be her only excuse for what happens next.

Well, that’s not quite true. She and Castiel have been working together for close to a month. Demons usually party solo or in large groups, but she’s closer to understanding why many hunters travel in twos. There’s something to be said for knowing Castiel has her back, won’t betray her at the first chance, that they’re working towards a common goal. It shouldn’t make sense, a disgraced demon and former angel, but they’re a good team.

Plus, neither of them are big on sleep, so there’s quite a lot of time spent talking, in the dark, in Cas’ dumb pimp car. Meg’s forgotten how long it’s been since she just enjoyed talking with another soul.

So, when she throws her arms around Cas’ shoulders and plants a kiss smack on his lips, it’s not much of a surprise to her, no matter how unplanned.

Cas, to his credit, is a good kisser, and doesn’t pull away until she does. He isn’t thrilled, that’s clear from the furrow in his brow.

“What was that?” He asks slowly. It brings some aspects of reality crashing back down, and Meg disentangles herself, feeling her vessel’s cheeks heat up.

“Come on, Cas, live a little,” She defends, instilling her voice with that silky seduction she excels at. “We just cleared out a vamp nest, and we’re getting closer, I can feel it. So why shouldn’t we celebrate?”

“I…” Oh Cas, now he’s the one blushing. Good. “It’s not that I don’t… You are…”

Meg rolls her eyes, “Don’t tell me, this is the part when you say you’re in love with Jo, or one of those gargantuan neanderthals she pals around with?” At the constipated expression on his face, Meg throws back her head. “Figures. Then why the Hell aren’t you tailing along with them? Why’d I have to track you down in Nowheresville, Illinois?”

Cas shakes his head and says, “Dean is dead.” Oh. Meg shuts up. She listens, it’s a skill she’s been improving on. “We… we didn’t have much time together. What we did have was complicated by the Apocalypse and my regaining my Grace. So… I’m not certain if Dean would classify what we had as strongly as,” Cas makes an awkward gesture she takes to mean ‘what you said’, “But… Yes, I miss him deeply, and a new relationship—”

“Whoa, whoa, hey there cowboy, slow your roll,” Meg interrupts with her hands up. “Demon over here, not so big on love and relationships. I’m more of a ‘do what feels good’ kinda gal.” Cas watches her, the wariness fading, and Meg tries her best to look the least predatory as possible for a monster. “If you and me doesn’t feel good, that’s totally cool. But if you’re afraid of feelings happening here, don’t be.”

“I…” Cas sighs, half-turning away from her. “Look, can we talk about this after we’ve disposed of the bodies?” That’s… a fair point.

But, as Cas moves to go, Meg grabs his arm. “Hey, for what it’s worth,” She says, the sincerity coming out clunky, “I’m sorry about Dean. Like, I won’t claim to like the big lug, but, losing someone sucks. So, yeah, sorry.”

She would never say this to another soul. Anyone else might think that implies she’s gone soft. But she wasn’t always a demon, she had family once, and no matter what Hell does to strip you of your humanity, there’s usually a sliver left here or there. There’s so much trust involved in knowing her partner won’t try and pry her open to pull it out.

Cas nods once, says, “I appreciate that, Meg. You had the lighter last, correct?”

 

* * *

 

Monsters have their own little networks, support systems. There’s bars where ordering a “Bloody mary, extra bloody,” will get you exactly what you think. There’s hideaways for the ones who transform at certain times of the month with padlocks and sigils. There’s gathering places in public parks where pagan deities and spirits congregate. Most professional hunters keep tabs on these, but leave them up and running.

For some reason, Dean can’t remember _why_.

It’s easy work, almost too easy, to follow a mortician with a side business to a group of nasty monsters huddled in a basement.

“You ugly motherfuckers just got very unlucky,” Dean declares with his arms out. The monsters scramble for the exits, but it’s not a good ambush if you don’t do it right. They come up against the doors Dean blocked from the outside with metal dumpsters. Dean laughs, flexing his arms, showing off the machete he picked up.

“Please, hunter, we’re not hurting anyone,” One of them says, hands up. It’s fitting that Dean rams his knife through the tendons of his palm.

“Not now,” He agrees, friendly-like, loud over the creature’s screams, “But that friend of yours is about to be locked up for selling human body parts, and I’m not taking any chances.”

That’s when they start getting brave. There’s a sudden weight on his back, but Dean flips the creature over his shoulder. They come at him stupid, and Dean is clever. It’s artistry, what he does with that blade, twisting it out of one monster to plunge it into another.

“I don’t know about you, but I am having a wonderful time.” Sing-song and gay. No one else is having fun, but he sure is.

He’s just thinking he hasn’t gotten a scratch when one of them bites a chunk out of his forearm. “Dirty,” Dean chides, and he twists his wrist to jam the knife up under its chin. Not a lot of power in that move, but still effective. It falls and Dean distantly notes that it looks a bit like his mom, the blonde hair and round eyes, especially in death.

There’s only one left, young, looks like he’d be 14 or 15 if he were human. Hell, maybe that is how old it is. Dean grins and waves with his knife.

“Boo.”

 

* * *

 

When they catch up with him, Dean’s lounging on his hotel bed getting a Magic Fingers massage. Yeah, _hotel_ ; the door he and Jo just busted in was on the middle level of a real hotel chain. Apparently soulless Dean isn’t as frugal as the Dean they remember.

It could be worse, at least Dean’s alone, and sober. He actually grins when he sees them, and Sam… Sam thought he’d been dealing with his brother’s death reasonably well. That all goes out the window when confronted with Dean alive and well and _happy_ and… It’s all so wrong.

“Hi ya kiddos,” Dean greets them, struggling up from the vibrating bed, “Long time, no see!”

“Shut up,” Jo snaps. “What the Hell have you been doing?”

Dean shrugs, ambling up, unhurried. “Hunting, what else? You need help? Last I saw you were doing fine on your own.”

“Hunting? You’ve been _butchering_ , Dean. Peaceful—”

“Monsters, ‘peaceful’ monsters. Kind of an oxymoron, don’t you think?” Dean reaches down under the bed, but Jo’s got her gun up and ready, and it catches his attention. Slowly, still with that obnoxious grin, Dean raises his hands. “You trying to gank me, Jo? Over a coupla shifters and werewolves? I died for you, ‘member?”

Sam gives the order sternly. “Jo, leave the room.” It’s not that he thinks she’ll do anything rash. They’ve grown up with Jo, him more than Dean on account of age, but there’s some things that have to be done with blood. Jo can read his resolution and obeys, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Dean relaxes, clapping his hands together. “Knew you had my back, bro. What was her deal?”

“Our deal,” Sam spits through grit teeth, “Is that you came back from the dead and never even told us. And, obviously, it’s because you came back wrong, so we’re gonna fix you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” He sputters, “Fix me? I ain’t broken, Sam, I’m better than I’ve been in years. You know how stupid I was over losing Cas and feeling like the Apocalypse was getting nowhere? All that shit’s better now. _I don’t care_.”

“Yeah, that’s the point. Dean, you care, you’re supposed to care. You’re my big brother, all you’ve done my whole life is care. This isn’t a better you— this isn’t _you at all_. You left Jo, you left Bobby, you left _me_ ,” Sam scoffs, and chokes out, “For fuck’s sake, you left _Baby_.”

“Sam,” Dean says, cocking his head and smirking, “It’s just a car.”

Sam does something he hasn’t done since 2005, after _he_ got a call to identify his parents bodies because he was the son with the permanent college address, and _he_ had to track Dean down on the road, and _he_ had to demand why Dean was hunting alone, why John and Mary had gone after Yellow-Eyes alone, why…

He beats the shit out of his older brother.

Dean may be soulless, but he’s not superpowered, and Sam has size and surprise on his side. He gets Dean mostly knocked out and hauls him towards the door. Throws it open, and if Jo’s face is any indication he looks just as bad as his brother.

“C’mon,” Sam slurs, waiting to spit out the copper pooling behind his teeth, “Let’s get our Dean back.”

 

* * *

 

The rustle behind her, a sound she’d anticipated for over a year, makes the cuts on her knuckles sting around her beer neck. The angel states flatly, “You found him.”

Jo takes a long gulp of the beer. She really shouldn’t, it’s her second and it’s early afternoon, and Jo doesn’t have the Winchester BMI to knock them back like pop. She’ll do it anyway; it’s easier to get buzzed than it is to face the redhead.

“We’re hunters, give us some credit.” She tears the label from the sweaty bottle, filling the silence. “Dean left a trail of bodies, he… He was just an animal.”

“I’m sorry,” Anna says, a tremor beneath her voice, “I know the words aren’t enough. I know my explanations—”

The bottle slams on the table, spilling over as Jo whirls around. “You were gone for a year!” It’s a mistake, she knows it the instant she lays eyes on Anna’s startled face, because the angel still has the power to make her stomach flip and her heart race. The anger bubbles out of her regardless. “When you were an angel you didn’t always come when I prayed, but I got why. Then you were cut off from Heaven, and… Fuck, you made me so fucking pissed sometimes, but at least you were there. You were right by our side the whole goddamn time. Suddenly you get all graceified again, and you flap off on your holy mission, and leave me in the dust. Like I didn’t even matter to you, like I really was just the Michael Sword, and—”

“You’re wrong,” Anna says, without raising her voice. She doesn’t need to, not when she steps into Jo’s space and presses their hips together. Those impossibly soft hands hold her cheeks tight even when Jo instinctively twitches back. Anna breathes — Jo always forgets that — hot against her lips. Jo’s mouth falls open, but instead of a kiss, Anna speaks. “You are so much more than what Heaven made you to be. That’s why I stayed away. You should be living your life on Earth without the burden of angels on your shoulders. If I answered one of your prayers, while entrenched in my war against Raphael, I believe you would have wanted to help. I couldn’t let you.” She smiles, a soft wan thing. “I want you safe, Jo, safe and happy. I want that more than I wanted to be by your side.”

Jo swallows the creeping tears. “You fucked up, though. I know… I hear you, but you fucked up.”

“I did,” Anna admits easily, “So how can I make it right? If there is any way to mend this, please tell me.”

Part of Jo is playing a home movie in her head on loop: she surges forward and kisses the angel and licks into her mouth and grinds into her thigh and they fuck their problems away. Only Jo’s been trying that trick since she was 19 and her problems still exist when she rolls over onto the pillow.

She gently takes Anna’s wrists and lowers them to their sides. “When I pray to you, whenever I pray to you, I want you to answer me. Promise me, okay?”

“Yes, I promise.” Her response is prompt but no less sincere. “Nothing less than incapacitation or death will keep me from you.”

“Yikes,” Jo winces, even though there’s an unsettled laugh in her throat, “Way to bring it down.” It’s good though, it’s the assurance she’d needed. The knot of anger and mistrust loosens.

“May I stand with you while you seek to fix Dean?”

Jo shrugs, “We haven’t figured that part out yet. We’ve got Bobby’s books, but they’re all the same ones we went over during the apocalypse. There’s shit about how God supposedly closed the Cage, the Seals to open the Cage, bupkis about how we could've closed it without the Horsemen’s Rings, and less than bupkis on how we might pull a human soul out.”

The emotion — devotion, really — on Anna’s face gives way to the strategist. Her brows draw together as her gaze turns inward. “I may know someone who could help. It’s a risk.”

“When isn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

Sam isn’t sure when he resigned himself to being the Xander of the group. Destiny came for Jo, Dean got caught in the mix, and Sam was passed over. It had become a fact of his life that he’d be the one left behind, the backup, the disposable one. Even going all the way back to when he abandoned college and took up hunting, Sam’s just been trying to be useful.

He’s pretty useless backup against Death itself.

“What about my sister, Ruby?” Jo asks the pale horseman. Death’s hollow eyes swivel towards her. “Can you save her, too?” The dark suit seems to ripple with warning over its — their gaunt frame. Death somehow defies gender; no labels fit except _ancient, powerful, awesome_.

Those dark eyes hold Jo pinned as Death declares, “You can only have one.”

Jo lifts her chin, looks Death in the face, and says, “No.”

Despite the moral integrity he can hear ringing in the back of his mind, Sam says, “Jo, please.”

“Sam…” She turns to him, bleeding guilt, “We _can’t_.”

“Really,” Death purrs, “A man you grew up alongside, versus a bastard sister you never even met?”

“There’s got to be another way,” Jo says firmly, even if her elbows tremble and Sam can make out the outlines of her fists in her pockets. “I’m not gonna abandon someone with those two dicks, not at any price. Dean would get it.”

Sam isn’t sure about that. Every fiber of his being is saying, _bring Dean back_. He imagines Dean would be feeling the same if the situations were reversed. That must be the difference between the Harvelles and the Winchesters; he and Dean are too damn selfish.

Death’s slender fingers tap on the head of their walking stick. They appear to be thinking, but it feels like a ruse, as if this a moment that’s been building for ages and they’re finally getting to savor it.

“I must say, Jo, I’m impressed. And you’re correct, there are other ways into Hell, even ways into the Cage. I won’t do it for you, but I could be persuaded to instruct you.”

“Persuaded,” Anna repeats keenly, “Persuaded how?”

“The next time one of you three die,” Death announces, looking at Jo, then Dean’s body, then piercing Sam in his icy gaze, “I reap you personally. There will be no more get out of jail free cards.”

It’s suicide, but Sam blurts out, “Why me?” Chafing under the sudden attention of the room, he adds, “I haven’t died yet.”

“Samuel Winchester,” Death seems to wheeze, then he realizes it’s a chuckle, “You’ve been very lucky. If you were to die, I’m certain there’s nothing these two wouldn’t try to bring you back.”

Jo’s back tenses and she doesn’t refute it. _Oh_ , Sam realizes . _Oh._

 

* * *

 

“So if I got this all right,” Bobby sums up from his notes, dictated by the Grim Reaper themself, “There’s a thread that runs between this world, Purgatory, and Hell. It’ll likely take the shape of a path or road. A marking of three will show where the thread connects to Hell. It’ll be easy shifting between those planes, but we need a reaper to transport living souls to Purgatory.”

“Yes,” Death agrees, “And although I’ve wasted far too much time with you lot already, I can fetch the reaper for the job. Be back in a jiffy.” Death disappears without so much as a whisper.

Jo says, “Shit, that’s spooky.” The rest of their merry band make varying grumbles of agreement.

They’re huddled in the back room, the one Bobby uses for his poker games, ‘cause like he puts it, “My back’s no good for pool.” Jo’s been turning a blind eye to how Sam’s been keeping Dean unconscious. It’s easier to gloss over what Dean is now by focusing on how to fix it. Anna stands to the side, removed from the humans. Jo’s got a tangle where her feelings for the angel are concerned and no time to think about undoing it. Still, when Anna catches her looking and smiles, Jo’s glad to have her there.

“Jo?” The room freezes at the interruption. Death has returned, and brought a friend. The dark haired woman who stands before them pings familiarity in Jo. There’s a gaunt hollowness to her, but when she meets Jo’s eyes, there’s warmth in those depths.

“It’s not your time yet, why have I—” She looks to Death.

“Jo would like you to take her to Purgatory,” Death informs her, “So that she may raise two souls from the Cage. You need not take her farther than the first Gate, and even that is your decision.”

“Father,” The reaper says, and it sends a jolt through the humans, “Doesn’t that go against the natural order?”

“It’s was the work of angels. They never like to color in the lines.” Death shrugs, their demeanor dismissive. “I don’t object to her wishes.”

The reaper smiles widely, her teeth looking perfectly human, and yet unsettling. “Then I’m happy to help. You know I have a soft spot for Jo by now.”

Jo stares. “Huh?”

“My name is Tessa. I’m your reaper. I forget that, although we’ve done this three times, you never remember me. Maybe now you will.” Three times, Jo thinks, three times that she died? Yes… yes that must be right.

Anna steps forward, drawing the reaper and Death’s attention, their heads turning sharply like hawks. “I’m coming with Jo.” Jo tries not to telegraph her surprise. Tessa opens her mouth, but Anna continues talking. “I don’t need to be reaped, with my wings intact, I should have no trouble following you. You’d still only be carrying one soul.”

Tessa looks to Death, who merely sighs, “ _Angels_.”

Sam says, “Can I—”

“No,” Tessa says firmly, “I am not for you Sam Winchester, and as Anna said, I’m only consenting to carry one soul to Purgatory, nothing more.”

“I need you here,” Jo murmurs to him, “You’re the only one I think could control Dean.” It’s manipulative, but it works. Sam visibly stands down and shrinks to one side.

“As long as we’re settled,” Death announces, tapping their cane, “I suggest we all go our merry way. Don’t forget,” They say, meeting Jo’s eyes, “The next time I see you, you are mine. Permanently.”

Tessa holds out her arm, and Jo nearly sways from deja vu. Anna’s sturdy presence at her back keeps her upright. Before she realizes she’s nodding, the ground is giving way beneath her feet.

 

* * *

 

The passing between void and planes of reality is normally not a difficult trip for an angel.

Purgatory is different.

Anna encounters barriers, weakened by Tessa’s infinitesimal lead, but there nonetheless. She has to compress herself, extend herself, adjustments on a wavelength scale that are _exhausting_. By the time she lands, Purgatory forming beneath her feet as Jo experiences it, she must draw her bruised wings into her body and take deep breaths.

“Whoa, hey, Anna,” Jo’s slender, calloused hands are at once roving over her body, “Take it easy. What’s wrong?”

“Difficult trip,” Anna grunts. She turns the pain inward, adjusts her vessel’s posture, and with Jo surveys their surroundings. “I did not expect this.”

They stand on a barren rocky cliff face overlooking a dense forest of grey, skeletal trees. There is ambient light in the sky, but no sun. There is no green, not in leaves, not in grass. The pallet is white and grey and brown. It’s easy to imagine the inhabitants of this plane falling into despair.

“Cheery, right?” Jo says, and Anna knows this to be a joke. She points down the cliff side. “Over there.” There’s a river, flowing from the forest’s edge to pool. “Could that be our road?”

“Yes,” says Anna. She steps down the rocky embankment, hearing Jo follow behind. “You should stay close. There will be many creatures here, only a fraction you’re familiar with, and all will be eager to dismember a human soul and an angel.”

“You didn’t have to come,” Jo mulishly points out. Anna thought they’d gotten past her anger, but that will no doubt be a journey in and of itself.

“I did. One we reach Hell, I’ll need to guide you to the Cage. It won’t be directly accessible, but the antechamber will be. Dean and Ruby’s souls aren’t meant to be there, so once we call them forward I’m hoping they’ll come easily. Ruby will be merged with her vessel, but Dean will need a host to transport him. If you don’t object—”

“Obviously, he’s riding with me.”

“I assumed as much.”

They fall into a terse silence. The forest swallows them up. Jo huffs, “So how long—”

A piercing shriek cuts over her. “Angel!” They jump to attention to face a black gelatinous mass. It strikes instinctual fear into the angel. Bubbling, twisting, it takes a humanoid shape and is on them within seconds. The war’s begun.

 

* * *

 

“Tied to a chair,” Dean chuckles as he wakes, rolling his neck, “If I had a nickel.”

Years and years ago, back when Bobby was just getting the hang of hunting with the old crew (Ellen and Bill and Mary and John, and Christ, he’s too young to have lost this many friends), he’d renovated his basement into a panic room. While fixing up the Roadhouse, he added the same thing down in the cellar.

To take all necessary precautions, and ‘cause they didn’t wanna have to deal with him, they threw Dean into center of the devil’s trap and chained him up.

“Where’s Sammy?” Dean asks, and it’s nearly convincing.

“Icing his face. He’ll be back now he hears us chatting.”

“I don’t get any ice?” He winces, pulling at the swelling around his eye, but it’s for effect. “You never used to play favorites, Uncle Bobby.”

“Cut the crap,” He scowls, rocking on the backwards chair, “I know you don’t give two shits about us. You’re soulless, Dean. You’re screwed up in the head.”

Dean lets his head loll, peering at him. “What else is new? I wasn’t soulless when I pushed my ass out for Michael.”

“No, you were just majorly depressed. We forgave you for that a long time ago, dumbass.” Bobby rolls his grip on the chair back like a harley. “But what I’ve been hearing from hunters? We don’t kill creatures that ain’t doing nobody no harm.”

“So…” Dean says with exaggerated confusion, “We do kill creatures that are doing anybody… harm?”

The door bangs open and Bobby glances over as Sam saunters down the steps. “Great, Sleeping Beauty’s up.”

Dean grins, splitting his lip. “Does that make Bobby a dwarf?” Sam levels him a look that could break steel in half. “Ouch. Why is everyone so gloomy? I’m back baby, we oughta be popping cold ones, hiring strippers, yadda yadda.” He squints at Sam, and Bobby gets a bad feeling. “When’s the last time you got laid anyway, lil’ bro?”

To his credit, Sam lets the remark slide off his back. “A little over a month ago.”

“What was she? A werewolf? Vampire? Did you gank her, or did you just watch?” Sam goes taut beside him, when he ought to stay loose. It’s a tactic, that’s all. Dean’s lashing out, and it’s stupid to give him any satisfaction. Dean shakes his head, the laugh rumbling wet in his chest, “If the dictionary needs a picture next to ‘pathetic’... Your dick always pointed towards trouble. Those were early hunts though, right, you haven’t fucked any bad news lately, right?” Sam doesn’t reply, lets the jumping cord in his neck say it all.

“Appreciate the advice,” Bobby grunts, “We’ll get him fitted for a chastity belt in the morning.” No one laughs, but it does draw Dean’s attention away from his brother, which was Bobby’s real intention.

“What about you, old man?” Dean asks. “You been getting any lately? You might be, what, pushing 60? I’m sure there’s plenty of tail that blows through the Roadhouse, you get ‘em drunk enough, some of ‘em might even blow you.”

“Real classy,” Sam says through his flexing jaw.

“I’m just trying to prove that I’m the same ol’ Dean.” He grins with teeth that seem too sharp. “Looking out for my family, that’s what I do. Think Jo’s still hung up on Anna?” In spite of himself, Bobby shares a glance with Sam. “Girl needs to take a page out of my book: give up on those angels. They get their grace, they’re gone. I don’t think they’re really capable of love in the first place. They’ll get a human so wrapped around their finger, and then… Hell, losing Cas, that broke me.” He drops the giggly act and glares properly for the first time. “You say bringing back my soul will make me give a crap. Well I don’t want it. And if you like me good and whole, you’ll keep that damn thing away from me. It's gonna kill me— _you're_ gonna kill me.”

Bobby can’t find words. Knowing his boy was depressed was one thing, hearing it thrown like daggers was another. He looks to Sam. The younger Winchester can’t face his brother, stares off into the distance.

“You said once when I was a kid,” Sam says flatly, “Being a big brother means making the tough choices. You did it for me, you did it for Jo, and now it’s our turn.”

Dean doesn’t bother smiling, bares his teeth instead. “Then watch me burn.”

 

* * *

 

Jo has that bob and weave _down_.

The creature lunges, wearing Anna’s face, concealing the black ooze of its true nature. It's a mistake to appear human, she can fight humans no problem. Jo tosses her knife in the air, catching it by the hilt in her left hand. Her right arm she ducks under the attacker’s elbow and twists. It keeps them immobilized while Jo sinks her knife in its side. The creature screams, an Anna-like scream, but a body blow isn't enough to kill it, just keep it still until Anna can…

Jo shuts her eyes as blinding white light burns out the creature in her hold. She retreats and when the light dims she finds it's only her and Anna, the real Anna, left standing.

“You gonna let me in on the joke?” Jo pants, wiping her knife on her torn jeans.

Anna repeats the same phrase she has every time they make it out of an encounter with those things. “We need to keep moving.” She sets out along the riverbank. No matter where the creatures drive them in the heat of battle, they always find their way back to the river. It's the only path they have.

“I'm tired,” Jo grunts, hurrying to keep pace with the angel, “Of the stonewalling. Do you know what they are or don't you?”

Anna speaks softly, “I’ve only heard… they resemble a monster of legend.” She glances sideways, appearing bashful. “I'm old for an angel, but there's much that happened before my time. When the planes of existence were still new.”

“No better time for a long story.” Despite her words, she can only listen with one ear, keeping the other trained on their surroundings.

“The greek people had a myth, of a realm where Zeus banished creatures like the cyclops and the hydra so that his creations had a chance to thrive. It's the most applicable analogy to what happened between God and the Leviathan. They were ancient and far too dangerous, and God trapped them here, in Purgatory.”

“Okay, Leviathan equal shapeshifting ooze. What about the werewolves and vamps and whatnot?” They've seen less of them, those seem to scurry away when they catch sight of the two.

“Death determined how to distribute souls from Earth. Presumably he made use of this space for these once human souls that were too warped to belong to Heaven or Hell.”

If Jo were more into philosophy, she’d ask more about the division of labor that was worked out in the beginning. As it is, those questions won't help her here, so she remains focused.

“Why're the Leviathan picking fights with you?”

“They can sense my grace. It may have been unwise for me to accompany you after all. I'm a beacon for trouble.”

At that moment a blur of black streaks towards Jo, forcing her to leap back and roll to evade.  The leviathan tumbles right into Anna’s waiting hands. As the smoke clears and the angel’s face relaxes from its smiting glare, Jo snickers.

“Yeah, like I'd be better off.” Anna's head tilts with trademark angelic confusion. Jo sucks it up and clarifies, “I’d rather have you, Anna, trouble or not.”

 

* * *

 

Balthazar never wanted to lead.

Angel garrisons are highly structured, particularly in terms of succession. Since the last Holy War, his garrison went like this: Anael, Castiel, Uriel, Hester, Inias, and finally Balthazar. Some angels possessed ambition, Uriel being one, but most were content with the status quo. Balthazar adored his siblings far too much to imagine enough of them being gone to warrant himself as leader of the garrison. Castiel falling had caused him so much grief, then Uriel’s pride lead to his own fall, and Anna…

There was no point in staying in Heaven with shaken faith.

So it’s a mystery to him how he ended up here.

“Broseph,” Ash, the unofficial host of the resistance tosses him a can of beer as soon as Balthazar arrives. Balthazar catches it and drinks. It tastes the way Ash remembers it, so it’s practically ambrosia.

“Thank you, my man.” The collection of angels there observe this familiarity with blank faces. Some he recognizes, like Hester and Inias, Rachel and Hannah, and one tiny thing he believes is Samandriel. Others are seraphs from other garrisons. There are a few he can identify as coming from lower tiers of the Host.

“Balthazar,” Hester reports sternly, “Gabriel has failed in his encounter with Raphael. We have reason to believe he’s been destroyed.”

“He’s pulled that trick before,” Balthazar says with a dismissive wave, “Let’s not get out the black veils yet.” Nobody gets it. _Angels_. “Where’s Anna?”

Ash speaks up from the bar, “Last anyone’s heard, she was on Earth powwowing with Jo.”

Balthazar screws up his brow, “The bloody hell was she doing there?”

“She blew it big time with her girl, wants to make it right.”

“And that means she goes MIA whenever she pleases?” The angels are growing restless, so Balthazar collects himself. “No matter. We know our mission: keep any powerful tools out of Raphael’s hands. You have the ones I provided,” _Stole_ , he amends in his own mind, “But there’s quite a lot out there. The more we can take, the less Raphael’s forces have as leverage.”

“I scattered that last batch through some plots,” Ash says, pointing to his temple, “I got ‘em all up here.” Their strategy is sound: there’s no reason to believe Raphael knows Ash can travel through human’s Heavens. All weapons are passed to Ash, he deposits them each in a person’s plot, and only he knows where they are. If one of them is captured, they can give Raphael nothing useful. Angels don’t interfere with human souls once they’ve been put to rest, and plots of Heaven are designed with humans in control. Ash, their perfect lynchpin, ought to be safe.

“This guerilla warfare won’t hold forever,” Rachel points out. Young, she always was aggressive, and without Anna to keep her in line, it shows.

Inias, far more reasonable, says, “Until we have the forces for all out offense, this is a war of attrition. We follow Balthazar until Anna returns.”

How Balthazar ever gained command, he will never know.

 

* * *

 

It’s done.

Ruby clings to her side splattered with dirt and blood and viscera from interminable ages in Purgatory. Dean’s soul, so bright, too small, is living beneath Jo’s right forearm. He pulses there, warm, kind. An elder brother.

Anna is weary and weak, it shows in her bowed shoulders. Hell presses around them, and although they’d first emerged into what felt like an office building, going deeper down had revealed the Hell Jo tried not to recall. Dungeons, _racks_ …

“We’ve gotta move,” Jo says, rallying them along. She leads them back the way they came, the overly dramatic stone staircase. Ruby moves like a skittish animal, and Anna like a ball and chain, so it’s slow going. The dungeons give way to the flickering fluorescent lights, and Jo knows the end is almost near.

“Red,” An accented voice drawls, but it’s the invisible force that stops them in their tracks, “How delightful to see you again.” They all turn to the demon in the expensive black suit. “And Jo, you’re looking… frankly like you could use a shower.”

“Crowley,” Jo snarls, “What’re you playing at? Let us go.”

His brow furrows. “You come into my dominion and expect to leave unmolested? I’m fairly sure in most places I’m within my rights to shoot you. You’re lucky demons don’t carry shotguns.”

“Your—”

“Oh, you hadn’t heard?” Crowley gives the smuggest close-lipped grin. “I’m the new King of Hell. Not bad for a crossroads demon, eh? Working with the good guys was the best deal I ever made.” He finally seems to notice Ruby. On his face is the slightest flash of surprise, but he covers quickly. “Ah, is that it? Saving the innocent girl from being Lucy’s vessel for all eternity? I’d noticed Squirrel got sprung early, I just hadn’t expected you to be thorough about the whole thing.”

“What do you want, Crowley, or are you just planning on rambling us to death?”

“Listen, it isn’t personal,” He slouches against the wall, “But Hell needs to see that I don’t allow any old angel to breach our perimeter. Growly.” The shimmer in the air is more pronounced down here, and so Jo tenses when the Hellhound bounds ‘round the corner.

“Go!” Anna shouts, and as she throws out her arm, Jo and Ruby are propelled back with enough force to overcome Crowley’s binding. Jo wastes precious moments staring. Inside she’s revolting, _no!_ She can’t abandon Anna. But Ruby is hanging off her shoulder and Dean lives in her arm and… there’s too much at stake.

It’s the angels’ eyes that clinch it. The brown irises are bright within her resolute face. This is her choice.

Jo runs. She doesn’t stop running when they cross into Purgatory. She doesn’t stop at the shrieks of monster calls. She doesn’t stop when they climb the cliff and sees the swirling blue vortex beckoning them home. And she doesn’t stop when she and her sister are dumped out in middle-of-fuckall, Maine.

 

* * *

 

Life had been good.

She’d grown up in the suburbs of south Jersey, with a few early foster families before she was adopted by a nice elderly couple. They kept her clothed and fed and saved up enough that she could take classes at the community college. When she turned 18, she inquired at the agency for her birth mother’s name.

_Ellen Harvelle._

Ruby liked knowing, even if she didn’t plan on doing anything with the information. She didn’t blame this woman; Ruby hardly felt like mother material, and if she got knocked up, she’d probably do something similar. She had a real name now, Ruby Harvelle, and it allowed her to feel less guilty when she moved out of her adopted parents’ home. They were kind if distant people, and Ruby knew the bulk of their transaction was over.

She’d been doing well for herself. By her late-20s, she’d quit waitressing and worked as a salon stylist full time. Okay, so most of her day was bleaching teenagers frizzy and putting bumps in beehives, but it was good. She had direction, she knew what she was doing, she knew herself.

“Harvelle,” The creature with her face had purred while it stroked her immobile cheek, “What a coincidence.”

From then on it had been one nightmare to another.

Satan walked the Earth in Ruby’s three-inch heels. They weren’t even red, so she couldn’t click them together and wish to go home.

Then a woman — _her sister_ — pulled her free of the fire and chaos, pulled her through the wilderness, stole a freaking car and lead-footed it all the way to middle America with one hand on the wheel and the other flitting between Ruby’s head, her shoulder, her arm, her hand…

It doesn’t feel real. Lucifer lies. Lucifer tricks.

“Bobby!” Her sister — she knows the name, heard it in her own voice — _Jo_ calls out when they push into a dive bar. “I have them! Bobby! Sammy!”

Thunderous footsteps make Ruby flinch, but Jo’s there, rubbing her back. Two men enter from a back room, one short and greying, the other immensely tall and with Fabio level hair. They wear identical expressions of shock and relief.

“L—” The first syllable falls from Fabio’s mouth, but he catches it and says, “Ruby. Are you — Is she —”

“She’s shaking,” Says Jo, and Ruby notices that she’s right. Her body doesn’t feel like her own yet.

The older man, his beard twitching in a frown, approaches her slowly. “Come on, let’s sit you down,” He says, gravelly voice surprisingly gentle. “You’ve had a Helluva time, haven’t you?” Ruby laughs. It’s the first sound she’s made since they got out. It doesn’t sound pretty.

“And Dean?” She hears, as the man lowers her into a booth and presses ice water into her hands. Ice is soothing. There’s no ice in Hell. She’d been on fire. Lit from the inside out.

She’s out now. She’s free.

Jo lifts her arm, and Ruby’s gaze is drawn to the soft glow under the skin. “He’s here. He’s ready to come home.”

Home.

This place may not be home, and it still doesn’t feel real, but Ruby’s starting to understand that the nightmare might be over.

 _Is it really?_ Her voice, yet not at all her voice, says from far away. _My my, we are optimistic._

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes during Jo’s watch.

“Hey,” She says, touching his shoulder gently, afraid to startle, “You’re at the Roadhouse. You’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, pushing himself up on his elbows, “I remember.”

There’s some kinda twang in how he says it, so she repeats, “You remember?”

Dean meets her gaze, eyes brimming with tears, “Damn it, Jo, I remember everything.” Without any hesitation, she envelops him in her arms. Racking sobs pulse through their bodies as her shirt gets damp. Out of Jo streams nonsense comfort words, over and over, as she rocks the man six years her senior.

“How did you do it?” Dean asks later, voice still choked even if the tears have stopped for now. “After you picked up the knife… Shit, Jo, how could you ever feel good again?”

“Who says I feel good? I am what I am. I’m human, means I keep trying my best.”

“I killed people,” He confesses lowly, “And I liked it. Went total _American Psycho_. I felt so good doing whatever I wanted, and God, what I wanted was so fucked.”

“It wasn’t who you really are, okay? Who you really are is this: absolutely sickened by that thing.” It doesn’t feel like enough, so out comes her own vulnerability, the one kept deep inside. “Sometimes we get put in situations, and we have to adapt, and what we become is so twisted from who we want to be. That isn’t us, Dean, it’ll never be us.”

He’s quiet for a while. Jo may have actually said the right thing for once.

“Anna?” Dean whispers into her stomach.

Jo shakes her head. “Trapped.” The wound is so new, she’s still numb to it. “She’s an angel, she’s tough. She’ll make it out.”

Thankfully he moves on. “Cas?”

“He wanted to be left alone. That’s what we did.”

 

* * *

 

“Willis, FBI,” Bobby speaks clearly into the phone. He listens with half an ear. “Ah yes, Agent Davis is in the area following up on those attacks.” Another pause. “I understand they _appear_ to be coyote bites, but the FBI has discretion to follow up on any deaths we deem fit.” He could recite this bull in his sleep. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t give you that information. My advice to you is to comply with Agent Davis’ requests. If you have any more questions about jurisdiction, or Davis gives you trouble, you call me, alright, we’ll sort it out. Thank you, goodbye.”

“FBI,” He turns at the voice, “Anyone really believe that?” The girl looks wrung out, but steady on her feet. She pads out clutching his bathrobe around her. It’s hard to mistake her for anyone but Ellen’s kid now he’s really looking.

Bobby gestures down at himself, specifically the stained t-shirt and sweatpants. “Not if they’re looking at me, but I got the voice of an angel.”

“No you don’t,” Ruby promptly counters, “I’ve heard angels. They’re scarier than you.”

Bobby can’t say shit to that. He falls on his old standby, rising from his chair and leaving the back room. The Roadhouse is empty, it’s near 3AM, but the cooler isn’t. He comes back and presses a beer into her hands. She rolls it between her palms. Bobby could ask why she’s not sleeping — Dean’s been mostly dead to the world, waking for a few hours at a time — but that would open the door to his own insomnia.

“So,” Bobby says, leaning on his elbows over the poker table, “Monsters.”

Ruby shakes her head. “I… Please don’t give me the standard spiel. I had Lucifer in my brain, I kinda know some stuff already.”

“Alrighty then, you fill me in,” Bobby tilts down his chin, “What’ve you got?” She stares at him blankly, then visibly braces herself before she speaks.

“The thing that attacked me in Jersey, that took my shape and kept me alive while it fed on me, and called here looking for Ellen, that was a ghoul. They can feed on live victims or dead ones, I know ‘cause Lucifer made sure I knew it didn’t matter, she could’ve taken my vessel either way.” There’s a faint shudder that sweeps through her. “Lucifer was an Archangel, and she thought about the angels often. She had demons working for her, even if she didn’t care whether they lived or died.” Her neck gives away, her head falling forward, and she mumbles, “There’s more out there, things like the ghoul, and Jo and the rest of you are humans who kill them. It’s like something out of a stupid book. It shouldn’t be real.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Bobby agrees, “But it is.”

Ruby nods, pushing her dark hair back over her face. “Yeah,” She rasps, “It is.”

He could leave it there, but there’s more she needs, he can see it. “Your mother was a hunter.” He reads her surprise with satisfaction. “A damn good one. Saved my ass many a time.”

“Did you know my father?” She asks, hope in her big dark eyes. Bobby traces his gaze over her strong chin, her sloping nose, her low-set ears.

“No,” He tells her, “She must’ve had you before we met.” She takes that in stride; if she’s disappointed it doesn’t show. “Not long after that, Ellen married another hunter, named Bill Harvelle, took his name and had Jo. Bill died on a hunt when Jo was a kid, and Ellen taught Jo everything she knew. Ellen,” He needs a swig of beer, “Ellen went after this big name demon in 2006, but he had followers who ambushed her. She died, and Jo and the Winchester boys managed to kill Yellow-Eyes, the demon. Jo was…”

“She made a deal,” Ruby supplies, taking her turn to shock him, “And went to Hell instead of Ellen. It was all part of the plan.” She chuckles, low and angry. “And so was I, I guess. Only now the plan’s over, where do I come in?”

“Wherever you want, Ruby,” Bobby assures her. “You can stay with us, take on the nasties of the world, meet your sister for the first time. Or you could go, no one would blame you. No matter what, there'll always be a place for you here.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about slaying dragons, but I’ve done the waitress thing. I might as well stick around.”

 

* * *

 

Once more with feeling. Literally. This time pulling into the cul-de-sac had sent a pang of longing and regret through his body. Nothing like how he’d observed the scene before.

The cul-de-sac has seen the season change. It’s early December and the good Christian houses have their decorations up already. There’s a wreath on the mailbox encircling the black letters, _401 Novak_.

It’s been weeks since Jo or Sam or Bobby would let him slip away. They’re still handling him and Ruby with kid gloves, and while he can’t speak for Ruby, he’s sick of it. He’s no stranger to fucking up, to teetering too close to the line, only this is the first time he’s actually crossed over into crazy town. He knows when he’s ready to get back on the horse.

This is something he has to do first.

His knuckles wince at that sharp rap-tap he gives the white painted door. He waits, scuffing his toes, until a young woman, maybe 14, answers. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Dean says, always feeling at odds with her demographic,  “Is Casey here?”

The girl-woman shifts uneasily. “Who’s asking?” She has Cas’ eyes, he notices then, lined clumsily with smudges, but they’re the right shade and shape. This must be Claire, the niece, he remembers what Cas said once: _I held his daughter, Claire, hours after she was born._ It's startling to see what Cas’ daughter might look like; it must be a common weirdness for identical twins.

Dean tries to blink his musings away. “I’m, uh, I’m a friend of his. We met about three years ago. Last I heard he was staying here?” It's a lie, he'd seen with his own eyes, but she doesn't need to know.

Glancing over her shoulder, Claire steps outside and closes the door behind her. “Cas took off,” She says, and he jolts to hear her use the shortened name, “Months ago. There, uh, there was this woman. He said he needed to go with her, help her with something, but he wouldn’t tell me what.” Anna, Dean thinks ruefully, you fucking liar.

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“No, but I have his cell number,” She tells him. Claire takes out her phone, a fond smile creeping on her round face. “He's just learned about emojis, it's pretty awesome.” And, _what_? Dean is pretty sure roaming data doesn't apply to Heaven. Whatever Cas is doing, it must be on Earth.

“So he’s…” He swipes a hand over his mouth. “Could I have his number? I know it's weird, you don't even know me…”

“Are you—” She bites her lip, “You're Dean, right?”

“What…?” A warm flush trails down to his toes. “He talked about me?”

“I got it out of him,” Claire explains, “I had a problem over the summer with this boy, it was so dumb, and we talked… He’s my uncle, and he doesn’t judge, like, who else could I ask? He let slip that he only had one relationship in his life and it was part of why he left Pontiac. So, yeah, I asked questions about you, Dean.”

“I,” Dean chokes, “It didn’t really shake out like that.”

“Doesn’t matter, just… If you’re gonna start things up with Cas, be sure, okay? We’ve been through a lot as a family, and…” She shakes her head and hands him her phone, Cas’ contact info on the bright screen. “Whatever, I’m sure you two can work it out.” Diligently, Dean enters the number into his phone, puts it on speed dial number four. He thanks her, doesn’t bother mentioning her parents, whether she should keep this from them or not. He slinks back to Baby and settles in the front seat for far too long on a nice suburban street.

His thumb hovers over the number. In his ears creeps the crying, the screaming, the pleading... God, what he’s done, he’ll never forget it. Shouldn’t forget it, ‘cause that would mean no one remembers those people he killed in the name of the hunt.

He can’t drag Cas knee deep into his shit. Maybe once he learns how to save people without getting off on the killing, maybe then he’ll be worth it. Until then, Cas seems to be doing okay. He has Claire, his brother, and some sort of Holy mission. It must be everything he wanted, some kinda compromise between his two halves. Let the guy be happy, Dean tells himself as he finally puts Baby in gear, one of you should be.

 

* * *

 

_Anna, it’s me… Don’t tell you’re going to break your promise already… Come on…_

_Anna, you didn’t come. You said… you said death or incapacitation, so which is it?_

_Please Anna…_

 

 _Anna, you piece of shit, did you lie? What happened to Cas? Dean is… well he’s coming off one Hell of whammy and this isn’t helping._ _Look_ _, if you did sweep Cas back into the life, no one’s gonna judge you for it, but you should’ve let us_ _know_ _. Talk to me, you motherfucker, please, just talk to me._

 

_Anna, when you get this — Who am I kidding, it’s not like voicemail. Whatever. If you’re hearing me, we’ve tried, okay? Death and the reapers aren’t picking up and Bobby can’t find a way down to Hell that doesn’t involve the hounds. I summoned Balthazar, told him what happened. I… well he wasn’t happy about it, but he said some stuff about joining your resistance after all._

 

 _Hey Anna, it’s Christmas. Bobby decked out the Roadhouse in full Holiday cheer. It’s weird, taking this break. It’s helping though, I can tell, Dean and Ruby are acting more like people. I_ _think_ _you’d like Ruby when you meet her. She’s got some east coast spunk to her. Don’t ask what that means. Anyway, Christmas Eve is for praying, and you’re the only angel I’d wanna hear from… Merry Christmas, Anna._

 

 _Anna, we took a break, but we have to start hunting again. It’ll be me, Dean, and Sam on the road like it used to be. If you get back, go to the Roadhouse, okay? Bobby and Ruby will be there, it’s like homebase. You may not get that reference, but, whatever. I wish we could just stay at Bobby’s house forever. Let Dean recover, let me get to_ _know_ _my sister, wait for you, maybe, if you’re getting these at all..._

 

 _Anna, so get this, we found a skinwalker in Buffalo, right? That’s, I mean, the skinwalker was a dog, it was just in Buffalo, New York, by Niagara Falls. You ever been? What am I saying, you probably made them. Anyway, the skinwalker told us about how there was a skinwalker infecting and recruiting other skinwalkers. Bobby_ _looked_ _into the lore, you ever hear of something called an Alpha?_

 

 _Anna, we’re just heading out of Elwood, Indiana now. Fairies. Can you_ _believe…_ _I leave Sam and Dean in one measly field to do some simple tracking and they get abducted by fairies. I can’t take those boys anywhere. And a leprechaun was behind the whole thing! They really count grains of salt, did you_ _know_ _? Like the old chinese lore about vampires and rice. It was a fun time, when you get back I’ll give you all the deets._

 

 _Anna, something’s up. Hunters are getting weird reports from all over. I_ _think_ _it’s something to do with the Alphas. We could really use you here. Fuck, it’s been months._

 

_I need you, Anna. Please be okay._

 

* * *

 

Gabriel sidles up behind the scrawny teenager, his headphones firmly implanted by his eardrums, and taps him on the shoulder.

“Holy shit!” The kid yelps, clutching his books to his chest and flailing backwards.

Gabriel waves a hand, “Be not afraid.” That’s been a good opener in the past.

The kid isn’t getting the memo. “How the fuck did you get in my room?!”

“Uh,” Gabriel pops out of space and reappears cross legged on the teen’s bed, “Like this? Pretty easy once you’ve mastered instantaneous flight.”

The human’s legs give way and he curls into a ball in the corner. It’s pretty sad, actually. “Oh God, oh fuck,” He whimpers, clutching his head, “I’m dead, I’m fucking crazy, or I’m _fucking dead!_ ”

“Nah,” Gabriel shrugs, “You’re wrong on all counts. But listen, I don’t have time to ease you into this, so I’m just gonna pull a whammy on your brain and hope for the best. Cool?”

He’s across the room and putting two fingers on the kid’s temple before the inevitable protest. It’s not exactly ‘consent’, but angels have been fudging the rules for millennia.

Within seconds he has passed revelation unto the young man. Kevin Tran awakens as the next prophet.

The Archangel smiles once he sees the prophet is whole and unharmed. “Awesome. Now we can get to work.”

“Gabriel,” Kevin addresses him, breathless with fear and awe, “What the fuck… What work?”

Satisfied, he leans back and conjures himself a cherry lollipop. “Wrack your brain a bit, kiddo, it’s all there.”

The newly minted prophet begins mumbling and twitching as his mind revs up. “Raphael… souls… salt… moses… Anael… you need… weapons?”

“Close,” He shrugs, “Think mightier.”

“The… you want the Word of God.”

“Ding ding ding.” He sings, “ _There once was a dude named Metatron, with the Word and the tablets he wrote it on. Then he chose to flee, did a stealing spree, and now the tablets are fucking gone._ ” He pauses for applause, but Kevin might as well be crickets. “I remember the tablets. There was one for several breeds of God’s creatures: Leviathan, Angels, Demons, and Man. I need the angel tablet. We were never permitted to read them in their entirety, but I know there are ways of disabling an angel or even a group of angels, and it’s all there in chiseled grooves. You’re a Prophet, so you’re clued into the Word of God. You do your freaky mindmeld thing, I’ll retrieve it from wherever it ended up, and we’re golden.”

“But…” Kevin weakly protests, “I have cello practice.”

 


	2. 2012

 

Outnumbered, easily three to one. The trail that was meant to lead to a vamp nest ended up being demons, a whole lotta demons. And what started as a retreat turned into being corralled. A parking lot, scattered with cars and vans, low visibility, difficult to traverse, easy to split them up.

They'd faced worse odds.

Dean gets separated first, backing up and shooting with his pistol, putting cars between him and the bulk of the black-eyes. Sam and Jo are armed with machetes, for when the plan had been easy decapitations. They'd left the demon-killing knife in baby's trunk, along with the salt rounds and shotguns.

Sam gets out a shout of “ _Exorcizamus te_ —"before he has to dodge a sudden lunge. Alright, priorities get shuffled. Can't keep the hosts alive. Survive.

Two black-eyes come at Jo from the front. She swings the machete in a broad arch, crouching low on the balls of her feet. They advance so her back is to a low car hood. Her next slice gets a good hit on one’s neck, and it flails back. A bullet shatters through the side of its head, a sure sign that Dean is covering her from afar. Jo lands a left body blow on the remaining demon, feels ribs crack and give way. She pulls back with her right, only for the machete to be wrenched out of her clenched grip. Third bogey, flanking from behind, vaulted over the hood, grasping the blade uncaring of the deep gash in its victim’s palm. One of many advantages demons have in a fight.

Jo leaned back and kicked the second black-eyes in the chest, and it stumbles away. It's a smooth motion to carry that momentum backwards over the car hood to engage with the third. Her feet hit pavement, and she twists to get her stance right, body angled as she takes on the unarmed demon. Bare knuckles meet its borrowed chin, mainly a diversion as her left darts to her waistband. She's got three knives, two slender stilettos and a butterfly, tucked in sheaths inside her belt. She's got one nearly in her grasp when the black-eyes lands a solid jab to her cheek. Her ear whistles, her movements staggered, and it gets in another hit to collarbone. The demon can rip her heart out through her ribcage if she gives it a clear shot. She rolls her shoulder to take the next hit, manages to deflect another even as her right forearm shakes with the blow. The black-eyed bastard rams its head into her nose, and she feels blood gush from the wound. It's enough time to get her knife between her fingers. Jo’s right arm ducks and twists beneath her attacker’s, and her left hand jams the blade between its exposed ribs. The demon gasps, which turns swiftly into a laugh.

“Hunter bitch,” It whispers in her ear, “Crowley will have your head on a platter. You'll never—”

The stench of sulphur stings her through the blood and mucus running down her mouth. Black smoke pours from her quarry suddenly, and Jo disengages from its limp body. By the time it hits the ground, the vessel is an ordinary old corpse.

She's catching her breath, spitting out various fluids, but she resolutely quips, “Finally get your latin right, Sammy?” A broad shoulder ducks under her arm and pulls her up straight, and she smells Dean’s hair gel on the shirt collar. Her body, tense as piano wire, goes lax.

“Quit stealing my lines, slugger,” He grunts, using the bottom of his flannel to wipe her cheek and mouth. “Shit, they really got you. You breathing okay?”

“It's fine,” She lies, “Let's get to the motel and we can set it there.”

Sam’s boots enter her peripheral, the cuffs of his jeans a few inches too short. “We could call—”

“Who?” Jo demands, tipping her head up. Dean’s disapproving hum earns him a sharp elbow in his side. “We're all out of ex machinas. We were hunters before... we cab haddle a ruddy dose.”

Her argument would’ve held a lot more water if she'd been able to pronounce it properly. Still, the brothers don't bother to argue.

 

* * *

 

“Virgins,” Meg scoffs, “It’s always virgins. I never get why. Do you think the Golden Loophole still applies, or nah?”

Cas knows the back of his neck is turning pink, but doubts she can tell in the dark sewer. “It makes less sense when you realize most incantations refer to virginal blood, in that the blood hasn’t been used in magical ritual before. It’s coincidence that most virginal girls aren’t engaging in blood magic that would render them incompatible.”

In the pointed silence, Cas can feel Meg giving him one of her patented looks. This one is either ‘Your esoteric knowledge is very strange but part of why I keep you around’ or the one he prefers ‘I like you even when I don’t know why’.

When he asks which one this is, Meg says with a smile in her voice, “It’s definitely more than the esoteric knowledge and dragon slaying angel blade.”

Dragons. Cas can recall watching them centuries ago, but they’d gone underground to avoid extinction at the hands of humanity. He truly hadn’t ever expected to be tracking some through a sewer system, in the year 2012, with a demon by his side. Back then he hadn’t expected to fall either, this thought punctuated by a shiver. It’s February in Oregon, and he turns up the collar of his fleece-lined jacket.

“It’s so easy to forget when you’re carrying that thing,” Meg nods to the holy weapon in his hand, “That you could be offed by a cold spell.”

“As easy to forget that you’re a demon when you’re content not to kill me.”

“Lucky you.”

Their banter must take a backseat, as they come to the mouth of the sewer. The sludge beneath their feet trickles down into marshy grass and runs down the hill. In the moonlight, because it is a full moon, he and Meg exchange a glance before jumping down. They’ve gotten superb at non-verbal communication; perhaps it’s an unknown compatibility between their species, or unique to their partnership. Meg gestures down the sloping grass. He points at the sky, and she shakes her head. She’s the one with the superior senses, so Cas follows her lead.

It’s a long, silent trek. His blood flows in crashing waves, the human chemicals readying his body for battle. Though their biology differs, Meg experiences a similar process. The hill evens out to a field of knee-high grass. There isn’t much cover, so they advance cautiously.

“Wait,” Meg breathes, throwing out her arm. She ducks, and Cas follows suit, and practically crawls forward. Soon Cas can feel it too; there’s ancient magic occurring nearby. It calls on the energy of the air and Earth, making the whole of nature tremble around them.

“We’re too late,” Cas sighs.

100 yards underground, the Mother of All rises.

 

* * *

 

Late night drives always get shafted to Dean. He’s got the most years driving experience and can handle Baby with his eyes closed (not that he does, well, outside of the flatlands with their pin straight interstates, and he can’t be blamed for that). Plus, he practically volunteers, obligatory griping aside.

Sam’s laid out in the backseat as much as he can, which means one foot braced on the footwell and one knee bent, his shoulders and neck pressed on the window. He’s had years to troubleshoot the comfiest positions, and that’s the best the sasquatch can do. Jo glances at him in the rearview every few minutes, whenever a passing car illuminates him.

Dean is resolutely not tapping his fingers along to the tape Jo forced on him, though she bets they itch to. Only she’s allowed to supersede the cardinal rule. This time her logic was ‘It’ll be close to 2AM when we get to Bobby’s, let the rage keep you awake.’

“How did I get cursed with a family with such lousy taste in music?” Dean groans. He doesn’t have to keep his voice down; they know how exactly how loud they can be before they disturb Sam. “Between Sammy’s emo grunge hipster Temple of the Dog crap—”

“—You like “Hunger Strike”, don’t lie—”

“—Your teeny bob—”

“—It’s Guns N Roses, dude, chill.” She arguing lazily. It’s the best kind of bickering, the type she mostly has with Dean. Neither of them are truly invested, ‘cause neither of them are gonna change the other’s mind. They’re following a well-worn script, the comfort is in the repetition.

Plus it’s tradition to talk over the pornographic parts of _Appetite for Destruction_.

“GNR is little girl rock and you know it. Might as well be playing U2 or some other stadium shit.” Jo huffs her laugh to herself. The rumble of Baby’s tires over aged asphalt, enough to feel it without jarring the suspension, is working its magic on her. There’s a steadiness in the sounds, the feelings, the warmth of Dean’s knee when it bumps into her.

 _I see you standin', standin' on your own_  
_It's such a lonely place for you, for you to be_  
_If you need a shoulder, or if you need a friend  
I'll be here standing, until the bitter end..._

The last strains of “Rocket Queen” peter out and the tape crackles and clicks before Dean stops and rewinds it on autopilot. The hum of the cassette fills the car.

“We ever gonna talk about it?” She ventures, her voice gentle with sleep. Dean glances at her, but doesn’t acknowledge the question. “You’re gonna get an ulcer, Dean. That’s a stupid way for a hunter to die.”

“There’s not really time for a Hell support group,” He grumbles, missing the point by a mile. “You know we gotta keep moving, keep tracking down these creepy-crawlies ‘fore folks get hurt.”

“Not just Hell. You’ve always pulled this shit.” He looks at her for longer, more challenging this time. Jo waves her hand sloppily. She didn’t really mean to get into this now, but she’s too tired to drop it. “The bottling up your feelings, macho-man, boys don’t cry shit. You don’t express things, like, you know, people do. It’s all, ‘I’m Dean,’” Her impression is terrible, she can never go low enough, “‘I like sex, whiskey, and rock ‘n’ roll.’ Even the bi thing is just packaged in the sex part. You’re not a tweet, you don't have a character limit.”

“What if that’s it?” Dean argues, his fingernails digging into Baby’s wheel. “What if that’s all I am?”

Jo rolls her eyes. “Don’t insult me, or you, by saying that. You’re wound so tight I bet you couldn’t fit a pinky—”

Dean flatly interrupts her. “Whoa.”

“Sorry, but I’m right, and you know it. I dunno which part is getting to you the worst, if it’s the Hell thing, the soulless thing, the Cas thing, _shit_ , the Michael thing…”

“Or all of the above,” He says. It’s more of a concession than Jo’d expected. She waits silently to see if there’s more. Dean lifts one hand from the wheel to rub his chin. The scratch of his stubble rings clear without music. He speaks just as roughly. “I can’t talk about it, Jo. There’s too much shit in my head. Pandora’s box has gotta stay shut.”

“It’s not gonna do you any good,” Jo persists.

“Yeah, but it’s not hurting anyone else either, and that’s good enough for me.” He softens his words with a kind smile shot her way. “Don’t worry about me, ‘kay babe? I’m doing fine. Not gonna pull any more stupid stunts, I’m stuck on you and Sammy like glue.”

That’s not… Jo doesn’t know how to explain. His dedication isn’t unappreciated, but… that doesn’t have to be all he is.

Dean switches out the tapes and Lynyrd Skynyrd plays her a lullaby. “Sweet Home Alabama” coaxes her to sleep, and the conversation gets forgotten.

 

* * *

 

“So this is what you do, huh?” Sam’s back tenses. He hadn’t expected to be accosted coming out of Bobby’s shower, but he’d forgotten that Bobby had a full time houseguest now. He lifts his head and lowers the towel he’d been drying his hair with. He thanks some sort of deity for his foresight in wrapping another one around his waist.

“What d’you mean?” He asks dumbly, glancing over his shoulder. Ruby’s sitting cross legged on the bed, watching him in the en suite. She appears wholly unembarrassed, and why should she be, she has all her clothes on.

“You and your brother and my sister,” Ruby says, “You use this place as your waystation while you galavant across the continent fighting monsters. What was it this time? Blood? Slime? Please don’t say guts.”

Sam huffs a slight laugh. “Just dirt this time. We were nearby taking care of a haunting. Jo’s been needing to check in with Bobby about the Alpha situation anyway.”

“Right,” Ruby says, her head falling back as she looks to the ceiling, “The mother of all monsters. Sounds… insane.”

“Yeah, our lives usually do.” He tosses the damp towel in the hamper and moves into the bedroom. He’d left his duffel out on the bed, and Ruby doesn’t act bothered while he digs for his clothes. Sam wonders if now is the best time to broach some difficult subjects. According to Bobby, Ruby’s been settling into the hunter world. She has experience waiting tables and the Roadhouse is benefiting from her attention. But it’s never easy being thrust into the dark parts of the world. And after all she’s been through...

One of his furtive glances catches her looking at him with a smirk. “How on Earth do you fight monsters without your hair getting in your eyes?” Sam shakes his head, belatedly realizing that just showcases its length.

“Not you too. I get enough flack from our siblings.”

“I could do something about it, you know?” Without warning, she reaches over and combs her fingers through his hair. Sam stills, practically holds his breath. She’s tender as she brushes the hair from his face, curls it behind his ears. Not even the last person he’d had sex with had been this sweet to him. Ruby speaks as if she isn’t aware she’s flooding Sam’s veins with endorphins. “I used to be a hairdresser, before the ghoul and the Satan thing. If you like the length, I could keep it in the back, neaten it in the front.”

“As long as you don’t give me a mullet,” Sam manages to joke. He meets her dark, incredibly dark, gaze. On impulse he catches her wrist and brings it down. “Ruby,” He says, glancing down, maybe intending to kiss her palm, but stops. “What’s that?”

“Oh!” She jerks her hand back, but the angry red mark etched in her skin burns in his eyes. “Cut myself. Twisting open bottles, can you believe it?” Not really. It sends jolts of worry through the previous swell of affection. Ruby, more perceptive than he’d thought, pushes up off the bed, shooting him a plaster smile. “I’ll let you change, but next time you’re at the Roadhouse, take me up on the offer, okay? You really do need a trim.”

She’s gone by the time Sam’s fist curls uselessly on the bedspread.

 

* * *

 

“Alona,” Jo scoffs, “Jensen, _Misha_ , what the hell kinda names do they have in this dimension.”

When Balthazar appeared, frantically explaining he needed to hide them from Raphael, and blasted them into a bizarro world, none of them thought it would be one where their lives were on display for prime time viewing.

Dean, or _Jensen_ apparently, is still looking over his shoulder at _Misha_ , the Cas clone. Sam has to drag him by the elbow to keep him moving.

“That’s not Cas, got it?” Sam keeps muttering. “It’s some actor, we’re all actors, so don’t give the game away.”

“Hey!” A bark gets their attention. The three of them turn in union to see a woman in black rimmed-glasses with her hands on her hips glaring daggers at them. “We’ve got a table read in ten, and you’re still in costume?”

“Uh…” Jo intelligently responds.

The woman’s eyes flash. “In the trailer, now!” She points, and Jo sees the nearest trailer has a paper sign taped to it: _Jensen & Jared_. Not knowing what else to do, they march up the rickety steps and go inside. It’s… well Jo hasn’t spent a ton of time thinking about Hollywood, but she’d expected something ritzier than this. It’s cramped and untidy and it’s obvious that two, oversized men should not be in such close quarters. With four of them squeezed in, it’s downright claustrophobic.

“I know,” The woman says, everything about her suggesting a build up to a long tirade, “I get a lot of flack for being a harsh showrunner.” Jo exchanges nervous glances with the boys, but they’re at as much of a loss as her. “But I like to think I demand an adequate level of quality from my people. We all work hard around here to make a good show, a great show, even, one that inspires a lot of people.”

“Well, hey,” Dean says with a wary grin, “That sounds—”

“But if you’re ready to call it quits,” The director cuts over him sharply, “Just tell me. Cause I’m fighting enough battles keeping this shitshow going, I don’t wanna have to kick your asses too.” She cocks her head, steadily picking up steam, gaining volume. “I get hate letters for having Jo get beat up every other episode, and I think ‘Hey, it means we’re challenging the norms, right?’ But we can’t risk alienating the liberals, no matter how sensitive and shortsighted they are, because they’re our goddamn target demographic!”

Sam holds his hands out placatingly. “We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to skive off. Our schedules got mixed up, that’s all.” His well meaning words don’t register.

“We are scraping by on the skin of our asses!” The woman director shrieks. “Do you know how often the network has asked us to ‘tone it down’ or we lose our funding? _This week?_  All the critics said the world wasn’t ready for another queer fantasy show since Buffy, and you know how Buffy dealt with that? They killed their queers, okay? Do you want that, Alona? Jensen?” She pauses, scrutinizing Sam. “You’re safe, Jared, for now. The network likes it’s straight white male so much, they’re coming up with whole plot lines and romances for me to shoehorn in _my goddamn show!_ ” She looks off into the distance and mutters, “I should’ve just gone with Sabriel when I had the chance. That’d show ‘em.”

Jo barely refrains from another round of, _Uh…_ “Table read,” She blurts out instead. “Shouldn’t we be, um, going to the table read.”

“Right, yeah…” The director’s ire seems to have blown over. “Let’s move people, we’re making history.”

They don’t actually make history. After an appalling display of acting, they get whisked away back to the real world.

“Give me the key,” Raphael, now in a grey pantsuit wearing lady bod, demands as she advances towards them.

“Aha,” Balthazar chuckles with raw fear, “So, the thing is, these clods don’t actually have it. It was more of a… wild goose chase.” The Archangel fills the air with thrumming electricity, and Jo draws back against Sam. When the crack of lightning comes, she shuts her eyes, but Dean gasps and she has to look.

Anna stands across from them, Raphael whirled to face her. Wings, the wings Jo’d last seen in a barn in Illinois, spread wide. They’re so magnificent it takes Jo a minute to notice the rest of her. Anna’s covered in grime, her clothes torn, her hair unkempt and long. She looks… battered.

“You were in Hell,” Raphael growls, but she takes a step back.

“I was raised,” Anna says, her voice as rough as the rest of her. “I have the weapons of the Host behind me. Unless you’d like to lose this vessel so soon, I suggest you run.”

It works. Raphael is out with her tail between her pretty new legs.

“Anna,” Jo rushes forward and grabs her arms right as the angel starts to sway, “What the Hell? What happened?”

Balthazar is at her side, batting Jo away. “Who raised you, Anna? I heard nothing of this. Not to say we didn’t try, but… Crowley had you well guarded.”

“I…” She blinks slowly, and Jo watches with horror as a drop of blood falls from her eye. “I’m not sure. Gabriel? Hester?”

“Gabriel is dead, sister,” Balthazar says, “And Hester has been with me amassing the weapons. How… Damn it, we have many questions to clear up, but not in this state.” To Jo, he snaps, “Hands off. I’m taking her to Heaven, she’ll recuperate faster there. We’ll figure this out.”

“You can’t take her, she just got back!”

“Jo,” Anna reaches out blindly and Jo grasps her hand, “I won’t forget my promise again. Your prayers… I’ll come to you. Balthazar is right, I need rest.”

Jo feels herself being strangled and can do nothing about it. “Fine. But goddamn you, you’re coming back the first moment you can.” Anna manages a slim smile, and then the angels evaporate and slip through her fingers

 

* * *

 

Linda Tran wanders into her kitchen and plonks her purse onto her counter before she notices something hinky.

“Kevin,” She begins calmly, “Why is there a strange white man eating pudding in my kitchen?”

“This body came from what is now modern day Scandinavia,” The man says, wrapping his tongue obscenely around the spoon, her spoon, “And I prefer pudding to cake.”

“Mom,” Her son says, his voice tired and aggravated, the way it gets when he's been working too hard and she knows it’s time to brew him some tea, “This is — okay, it’s gonna be hard to explain — but this is Gabriel. Like, the biblical Archangel Gabriel.”

“Don’t sweat, Kev,” Gabriel says, flicking his fingers at her in a cheeky wave, “I’m great with moms. How’s it going, Linda?”

Linda crosses her arms and stares down this ‘Archangel’. “The Christian Bible? And if I don’t believe everything I read?”

“If it makes you feel any better, you can think of me like an alien,” Gabriel goes on, his movements slow and easy when he sets down his pudding and stands, “It’s the same sorta principle: otherworldly, big plans for the planet, phenomenal cosmic powers…”

“Please don’t,” Kevin sighs, his head falling into his hands.

The man erupts into blinding white light. Linda squints her eyes mostly shut, but there’s a split second impression of a vaguely humanoid figure burning at the center. It could have a halo, or it could have a big bald head like in the movies.

Then her eyelids are dark again, and she blinks them open.

“I really hate getting denominational myself,” Gabriel shrugs his shoulders still encased in dark green corduroy, “So whatever works for you. But Kevin here is my chosen something-or-other and I need his help. Otherwise a whole bunch of folks are gonna go nuclear. Whaddaya say, Linda, are you on board?”

Linda breathes through her nose. She cuts sharply to her son, who winces, then back to Gabriel.

“The being made of light is going to cook dinner,” She announces, “I’m going to take a nap.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so Dean thinks he’s a dog and Sam is a little twink again,” Jo reports to Bobby, “And I was in that whammy too why the fudge—” She blinks. “Fudging. Gosh dipstick! Jiminy Crickets! H-E-DOUBLE—”

“Yeah, we get the picture.” Bobby runs his hands down his face. “First impression is a witch, but I gotta say, those are the goddamn stupidest curses I can think of.” He pauses and amends, “The actual curses, not your made for basic cable bullshit.”

“Quit showing off,” Jo grumbles. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Lay low, let me fix this. I’ll call my buddy Rufus, we can sort this witch. You’ve got your motel room, there’s no need to go out and draw attention with any shenanigans. Order some pizza, rent some flicks, kick back. We’ll meet up in a few hours, got it?”

Jo lets out a scratchy noise of relief. “Thanks, Bobby. You’re a king among men.”

“And you’re queen of the idjits, but I save your ass anyway.”

“Back atcha,” She says, and before the moment can get sappy, there’s a bizarre strangled noise down the line. “Oh carp, they’re playing _fetch_. Sammy! Leave Dean the fork alone! Gee—”

Bobby hangs up before he can hear whatever crap the curse makes her say. Pocketing the cell phone, he tallies what gear he ought to bring in his head, as he pushes through to the main room of the Roadhouse. It’s midday, so customers are light, just two small time hunters making plans in a corner booth.

Ruby’s behind the bar, methodically running a rag over the foggy glasses. She looks a mile away, and jumps out of her skin when Bobby plants himself in her field of vision.

“How’re you faring this morning?” Bobby asks her. She blinks like she doesn’t get the question.

“Good, slow,” Ruby answers hesitantly. “What’s up? You heading off somewhere?”

“Jo called,” He says, and can’t ignore the way Ruby’s eyes glaze with disappointment. Not for the first time, Bobby thinks Jo’s a damn fool for leaving Ruby so soon. The sisters have far too much unspoken baggage between them. Now isn’t the time to get it in the open. “She and the boys got themselves all muddled up in witch trouble, so me ‘n Rufus’ll have to bail ‘em out.” Ruby nods, taking this in stride for someone who is still adjusting to all the danger out there. “You gonna be okay running the place while I’m gone?”

“Yeah, ‘course I will. G’luck Bobs.” There’s still this faraway look about her. Bobby raps on the counter, and she jerks. “ _What?_ ”

“You’re not 100 percent,” Bobby states gruffly, and when she tries to contradict him, he just carries on, “Ruby, no one’s ‘specting you to be. You and Dean, you both spent ages in the worst place imaginable. It’s gonna take time.” She’s staring at him, and while she might not be encouraging, at least she’s listening. “When Jo got out of Hell, she had the same haunted thing you’ve got going on. I know she talked about it a lot with Sam, boy’s good at that kinda thing. Don’t think Jo’ll ever get back to the person she was before, but she’s miles ahead of that broken gal who dug out of her own grave.”

Watching her process that, it dawns on Bobby that Jo probably never told her. No wonder the girl’s been off. She shouldn’t have felt like this was hers to deal with alone. When he sees Jo, he’s taking her to task, whether she fires curses back at him or those corny PG cover ups.

“I’ll be gone three days max. You call me, got it, if you need anything at all.”

“Yeah,” Ruby says, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, “Thanks Bobby.”

 

* * *

 

The prayer is a wordless yearning. It’s the flimsiest excuse and Anna will take it anyway.

Her mistake is clear when she appears in a dark motel room. It’s unremarkable, the way hunters prefer them. The sole occupant is sleeping, and doesn’t stir as Anna draws closer. Unusual for Jo to sleep so soundly. She must be experiencing a good dream.

Jo’s hair, a flat, darker color in the dim light, is splayed on the pillow. Her head is turned slightly to the side, facing Anna. If she chose to be so fanciful, Anna could imagine this is a regular occurrence; that she is often permitted to stay and watch Jo sleep. Perhaps, in this fantasy, they share the bed, although Anna has no need to rest. Anna thinks… she might want that.

 _This isn’t about what you_ _want_ _._

There’s an impulse, and she follows it haltingly. Her arm reaches out. One by one her fingers uncurl. They stretch towards smooth skin.

Her hand is caught tight. Anna shoots a startled glance down into Jo’s open eyes. The hunter is panting, she can sense the neurons firing in fight or flight response, and the cool down once Jo’s tired brain finally recognizes her.

“Anna?” She says, relaxing but not releasing her hand. “What gives?” Her voice is a raspy mumble that makes Anna ache. Is this what a prayer feels like? Is that what Jo was feeling as she slept? “Somebody in trouble?”

“No, everything’s fine,” Anna assures her. It feels awkward to keep her hand — their clasped hands — hovering, so Anna gently nudges them. Her skin meets Jo’s cheek. The hunter blinks, her thoughts coming faster as she properly wakes.

“You’re here,” Jo says on an exhale, “Why’re you here?”

The truth feels embarrassing to admit, so she says, “I missed you,” Which is true anyway. Jo pats the bed with her free hand, and Anna takes the invitation, perching in the curve of Jo’s body. “I didn’t factor in the time. I’m sorry for startling you.”

“Forget it,” Jo smiles, and it must be the darkness making it look so uncharacteristically tender, “I’m glad you came. How’re you feeling?”

Anna answers, “I’m fine. Balthazar and the other angels don’t know who rescued me from Purgatory. I’m beginning to suspect a higher power.”

“God?” Jo clarifies. She stretches, her muscles going briefly taut, and then slumping back in bed. It’s mesmerizing. “I guess it wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve really got a knack for miraculous resurrection. Either someone’s looking out for you, or you were born under a lucky sign.”

That’s very confusing. “I wasn’t born.”

Jo chuckles, the sound punched out of her as if in surprise. It brings Anna peace to hear her laugh. She missed Jo very much.

“We’re on the hunt for something big,” Jo whispers, her eyes falling shut as she speaks. “There’s been weird monster sightings from all different hunters. Weird like… nobody’s seen these things before. Mother of All, is what Bobby thinks, with her own Build-A-Bear workshop.”

Anna nods. “Progenitor of monsterkind. I would hope that’s not it. She’s meant to be locked away.”

“They said the same about Lucifer,” Jo counters, and Anna concedes the point. “How about you? What’s the war effort like up there?”

“I…” Anna ponders how to reply. “There is not much left we can resort to. Our main assault was two-fold: disseminating the benefits of Free Will among the garrisons, and concealing Heavenly weapons so they may not be used against us. Jo, I… I have my doubts the resistance will succeed. Raphael has the majority in Heaven and the Host is, on the whole, too terrified to oppose her.” Jo’s eyes are open, they reflect pinpricks of light. “I apologize, I didn’t come to burden you.”

“Never. Anna, you know, you ever get up against a wall, you come to me.” Anna doesn’t know how to decipher that. “I mean, if the choice comes to stand and die or to flee, you run — fly — straight to me. Nearly killed me leaving you down there.” Oh. Jo blames herself for escaping Hell without her.

“Our mission was to retrieve Dean and Ruby,” says Anna. “We completed the mission, and… that made me happy.” Sensing that Jo is unconvinced, Anna smiles. “It wasn’t your fault, and look at me. I’m no worse for wear.”

“Okay,” Jo mumbles, settling into her pillow, “Yeah, okay.”

She falls asleep holding Anna’s hand over the bedspread. Anna uses the tether to justify staying and watching over her charge. It’s the best night she’s had in a very long time.

 

* * *

 

Sam whirls around but the vision is the same in every direction: his own horrified face. He’s trapped in a hall of mirrors. No matter how many time he pounds on the glass, there’s no escape. It’s a cage, for him alone, and Sam spins one last time. Instead of seeing his own face going pale, standing on the other side of the glass is his worst nightmare.

“A clown?” The muffled voice jolts him out of his paralysis, and Sam backs up as far as he can until he hits another mirror. The clown reaches up and peels off the mask. “All the fucked up things you’ve seen in your life, Winchester, and you piss your pants at a little makeup and polka-dot pajamas?”

It’s…

Sam’s brows draw together.

“Gabriel?”

“Yup, there’s no fooling you, moose.” Gabriel snaps, and the costume is thankfully replaced with the archangel’s usual look. He leans against the frame of the mirror. “How ya been? Still paling around with Jo? Dean ever get reassembled? Better, faster, stronger?”

“I…” There’s a fuzziness in his mind that he tries to shake off. “Dean has his soul. Jo’s okay. We got Ruby back.”

Gabriel hums, “Oh there’s a twist, didn’t see that one coming. The long lost sister back from the dead. Very cool.”

“What are you… Why are you here?”

“I respect you, Sammy.” Gabriel looks off into middle distance as he rambles affectionately. “You’re a straightforward kinda kid. Smart for a hunter, pure of heart, and all that white knight jazz. Sure, Heaven shafted your best friend and your brother, but you just kept on carrying on and made sure they both got out okay. It’s impressive, you know?”

No, he doesn’t. Sam is very confused.

“So I wanted to warn you, best I can.” Gabriel frowns, as serious as Sam’s seen him since they left him in a ring of Holy Fire. “There’s a disturbance in the force. The lines between angel and demon are thinner than ever.”

“What does that mean?” Sam asks desperately. “Angels and demons…”

“The last time Heaven and Hell were in agreement, we had the Apocalypse. I don’t wanna see what’ll happen this time. I’m working solo from now on, and I’m gonna tell you the words I’m living by: don’t trust anybody.”

Sam throws up his hands. “Blanket paranoia? That’s not advice.”

“I’m being serious here,” Gabriel insists, “Anyone who can be corrupted, be on high alert. I mean for fuck’s sake, Sam, if Dean and Ruby were in Hell, that’s a red flag right there. They start acting shady, you get your torch and pitchfork, hombre.”

“But you trust me?” Sam hears himself ask.

The Archangel winks. “I like you, Sammy. There’s a difference. Notice I’m not leaping to let you in on my location.”

“If you have something more concrete, _tell me_ , and Jo and I can—”

“Oh you won’t remember this.” Sam stares. “This is your subconscious. I’m laying the foundation, so you’ll be on your guard when you need to be.”

“I want to remember that you’re alive,” Sam confesses, surprising himself.

Gabriel holds up his hand. “Sorry, Sammy. It’s time to wake up.”

 _Heat of the moment!_  
_Heat of the moment!_  
_Heat of the moment!  
Here in your eyes…_

“I hate this song,” Sam grumbles as he sits up, rubbing his temple.

“Dude!” Dean exclaims from the twin across the room. “It’s Asia! Can’t diss a classic!”

“Sorry,” He huffs, swinging his legs over the side, “Just a bad feeling, that’s all. Must’ve had some weird dreams.”

 

* * *

 

“So nothing’s really changed,” Dean muses aloud as Jo slams Baby’s passenger side door too hard, “I’m MIA for a year, and you still don’t bother learning to parallel park.”

“How often are we fucking parallel parking?” Jo hisses like a cougar, slotting quarters into the hungry meter. “I’m an amazing driver. We’re in cities, like, 5% of the time.”

“That argument would mean more,” Sam says, unfolding himself from the backseat, “If we hadn’t just had a case in Indianapolis, and now…”

“Now we’re in bumfuck,” A middle aged couple walks by, and Jo sheepishly lowers her voice, “Ohio with a lead on some crazy worms, and they _still_ have street parking, it’s fucking ridiculous.”

“Least I’m back to keep you from scratching my Baby,” Dean says, affectionately rapping his knuckles on her roof. They never scratched the Impala, well, not bad enough it couldn’t be buffed out. Dean can’t stop harping on it though, mostly ‘cause it makes them defensive.

“This place used to be a cannery,” Sam says, blowing right past their petty squabble. “Fell into disuse years back. Ought to be empty.”

Jo points to the busted padlock on the side entrance. “That seem empty to you?”

They investigate with pistols up, Dean taking point, Jo and Sam fanning out behind. Inside the abandoned warehouse (he’s really starting to suffer from deja vu), the high windows filter in pre-dusk light through the layers of grime. It casts long eerie shadows. The conveyor belts mean they have to spread out, so Dean advances alone.

A sound, something rattling, pierces the silence. Could’ve been Sam or Jo, or something else. Adrenaline pumps in his ear drums, and Dean’s still trying to convince himself that it’s good. This is survival, not bloodlust, it’s okay.

Jo gives a startled shout, and Dean’s veering right to meet up with her. His gun’s trained at the scene before his brain can process it. Meg, the demon they’d last seen in Carthage, has a long knife to Jo’s throat and Jo’s shotgun pressed to her gut. They wear identical expressions of shock.

“Should’ve known we’d cross streams,” Meg tells Jo, not having noticed Dean sneaking closer.

Jo pants, neck nicking the knife, “So you’re the one making folks roid rage?”

“Jo!” Sam calls. Dean knows his brother’s voice, can pick up every emotion in it. This shout is disbelieving, wary, and hopeful. The hope is amplified with the next syllable, “Dean!”

Sam’s calling from behind Dean, so Jo and Meg automatically turn towards him. Meg’s eyes go wide and her knife arm slack. It’s the chance Jo needs to back away, and she hurdles towards Sam, leaving Dean with the demon. He doesn’t drop his pistol, even if it doesn’t have salt rounds, it still packs a wallop. Meg doesn’t even attempt a fight, just stares like… well, like she’s seen a ghost.

“Wanna drop the knife, sweetheart?” Dean coaxes. “Or has it been too long since you went down under?”

“You’re alive,” Meg states flatly. “Damn.” Dean doesn’t waste time puzzling over that. Sam had the demon killing knife, and they’ve been quiet too long.

“Sammy!” He shouts without removing his gaze from her.

The voice that answers isn’t his brother’s, it shocks him to his core. “Dean…” His hunter instincts, drilled into him since he was a teenager, keep his arm locked and his eyes front.

“Clarence,” Meg says, looking over Dean’s shoulder, “You mind telling him not to ice me?”

"Hello, Dean." His ex-lover’s voice sends the same shiver to his gut. “Lower your weapon. She’s with me.”

Jo clinches it. “It’s Cas. Sam and I checked. It’s him, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

Since falling, Cas has faced many trials. He went through puberty as a sexually confused Catholic in a small town in Illinois. He was an introvert with an extroverted twin whom everyone mistook him for. He regained his grace as a pawn in the Apocalypse his siblings wished to create. To say nothing of becoming a real hunter and tracking down monsters with a demon.

Seeing the man he’d mourned back from the dead is something he hadn’t prepared for.

Meg hadn’t wanted to leave Cas, and Jo hadn’t wanted to leave Dean, so Sam had thrown up his hands and said, “I guess I’m going to the morgue by myself then!” Cas is a bit guilty that only one of them is following the case that drew them all there. However, there’s a lot that needs to be hashed out before anyone can let their guard down.

For lack of any better neutral territory, Jo dragged them to a local diner with the instructions to ‘blend in’.

“Bit early for a double date, isn’t it?” The sunny-faced waitress had joked when they were seated. No one laughed, and so she slunk away after taking their orders. This is not blending in, he thinks.

“All this time,” Dean shatters the tension, “You’ve been palling around with a demon? _That_ demon?”

Meg waves, “She’s right here.”

“She killed you in Carthage, did you forget that?” Meg shrugs, as if conceding the point.

“The circumstances changed,” Cas explains, his temper short, “She came to me with news of Eve’s resurrection effort, and I couldn’t refuse.”

“Eve,” Jo jumps in, “Is that the same as the Mother of All?” At Cas’ nod, she continues, “She’s been making all kinds of new baddies, every hunter in the 48 has been getting hit by them.”

“Not a surprise. Her presence on Earth is unheard of and could very well throw the planet into chaos. You understand why I felt I needed to help her?” Dean and Jo sit sullenly. Cas is struck by their hypocrisy. “Meg has been instrumental in tracking her. Eve shares a special bond with all monsters, they have an awareness of each other. Capturing monsters and interrogating them...” Unfortunately, he hesitates.

Jo gets the implication very quick. “Torturing monsters, that’s what you’ve been up to? Wow, Cas, I guess there’s more angel left in you than we thought.” A dirty blow, he feels, and allows that to show.

“We’re looking at the bigger picture here. She’s using her skills for the right reasons, and she brings results.” He feels they’re being sidetracked. His ire swivels to Dean. “ _And_ you were dead. Which I see you’re not. How long has _that_ been the case?”

“Dean wasn’t—” Jo’s cut off by a sharp look from the man himself.

Dean appears to settle himself, and holds his chin up. “I went to Pontiac, soon as I could, but you weren’t there.”

“My family was,” Cas tilts his head, “I kept in touch, kept Jimmy informed of the cities I passed through. I call my niece several times a week.” At Dean’s stricken expression, understanding dawns.

It’s Meg who retorts, fire in her voice at his behalf. “You didn’t look that hard, did you, Deano?” His jaw twitches, and he keeps quiet. “What, were you afraid of what you’d find, or what he would?”

“Can you keep out of this, Hellspawn?” Jo snaps at her.

“Don’t be rude to her,” says Cas. Besides, Meg made a decent point. He often thinks she is more insightful of human nature than he is.

Meg retorts regardless. “I’m so deep in this, honey. I was hunting Eve back when you couldn’t find your perky tits with both hands.” The two women look ready to vault across the table and strangle each other, and Cas lays a hand on Meg’s arm. It settles her, or at least distracts her, instantly. It does nothing to defuse the situation.

Dean asks with wide eyes, “Are you two together?”

Meg says, “No,” right as Cas says, “Yes.”

“Um,” The waitress juggling their plates careens backwards, “I‘ll come back later.”

 

* * *

 

 _Anna_ , Jo prays and then stalls. The words aren’t coming to her, and so she waits, tapping her clasped hands on her knees.

“If what you’re dealing with is truly the Mother of All, the only thing that can kill her is Phoenix Ash.” The report is clinical, and Jo lurches to her feet. Anna watches her with a faint smile.

“What?” Jo gapes. Anna shifts, some uncertainty in her posture.

“That… is what you were going to ask me about, isn’t it?”

“Phoenix Ash,” Jo repeats, her hunter brain coming back online, “But no one’s recorded a phoenix sighting since the Wild West. How’re we supposed to—”

“I can procure some for you,” Anna offers eagerly. “Time is just another dimension to angels, it won’t be a problem.”

“A-are you sure?” Jo sputters. This whole conversation is not going how she expected. She isn’t even positive she expected Anna to show up, promise or no. The last time they met was like… like a dream. A conversation in the dark, half-forgotten when she woke up alone. Jo shakes herself. “I mean, you just got back, are you really up to full speed?”

Anna tilts her head and squints. “I’ve had adequate time to heal, and this isn’t a difficult journey.”

Because Jo has seen too many trojan horses, she automatically looks this one in the mouth. “You want to kill Eve? I thought Raphael was top of your Most Wanted, shouldn’t you be, I dunno, putting all your effort into that?”

There’s a pause, wherein they maintain eye contact, in spite of Jo knowing the smart thing would be to look away. The angel’s always had the capacity to make her feel like a butterfly under glass. Anna takes a shuddering breath. She blinks rapidly, and for an instant Jo imagines she sees red in her eyes, though it’s gone in a second.

“You come first, Jo Harvelle. I’ve made terrible mistakes when I’ve forgotten that. I won’t forget again, and I’ll atone by helping you whenever you need it.” She flickers out of sight, and Jo holds her breath. Anna’s back before the black dots can press on her vision. She wraps Jo’s fingers around a glass vial, still warm. “Have Eve consume this, and you’ll win. I’d help you more if I could, but Eve is shielded from angels. Good luck, Jo.”

It’s only after she’s gone that Jo realizes she didn’t mention anything about Cas.

 

* * *

 

“You and your girlfriend should get your stories straight,” Dean snipes at him as they load the weapons. Dusting of ash mixed with the shotgun pellets, it’s a longshot plan, but it’s all they’ve got. It’s a simple task that got shafted to the two of them. Nobody is subtle about the reasons.

“Meg isn’t my girlfriend,” Cas deigns to reply, “In the same way you were never my boyfriend. We don’t have a label.”

“But you two fuck, is that what you’re saying?”

Cas rolls his eyes and isn’t gentle when he slams the bullets in. “I didn’t say that. Meg is a passionate person and—”

“Demon,” Dean corrects steadfastly, “She’s not a person, Cas.”

“If our respective species negates personhood, than neither am I.” Dean wants to argue that, but Cas doesn’t give him a chance. “It’s been evident this last year with Meg, that I still possess some grace, though vastly depleted. In other words, I’m not human.”

He’s being stupidly obvious when he grumbles, “You never worshiped Lucifer.”

“If you’re looking for moral high ground against Meg,” Cas says with narrowed eyes, “I’d point out that Meg never lied to me. She has always been completely upfront with her intentions. You still won’t address the fact that you’ve come back from the dead, _no_ , from the Cage, and didn’t attempt to track me down.”

“It’s…” Dean runs his hand over his mouth, one of his tells. “It’s not a nice story, Cas.”

“Fine,” He sets the gun down with reckless force, “Then we’re at an impasse.”

Damn Meg. She’d hit the nail on the head, which was so unfair. Yeah, Dean hasn’t felt good about himself since returning topside. Or… you know, you could trace his self-worth issues back as far as you liked, but Dean didn’t feel like dredging up old history. Main problem was, here was Cas, with a good life and limitless possibilities, and then here was Dean, feeling like coming back into the picture would only make things worse.

He hadn’t imagined this, an angry, hurt Cas demanding an explanation. He owes Cas — so fucking much — this much, so he stows his crap and fesses up.

Dean gets it out while his hands tick by rote over the shotgun; this way he doesn’t have to look at him. “Anna botched the job, and I came back without a soul. For over a year I was practically evil. And yeah, I didn’t give a crap about you. It wasn’t my fault.” He lets out a sigh, is grateful when Cas doesn’t interrupt. “I did come to Pontiac after I was healed. I got your number from Claire, but I didn’t call. I’ve been messed up, Cas, and I thought… I thought you’d be better off not hearing from me. Least until I felt like a real human being again.”

It’s been awhile since he was with Cas, so he forgets one of things he liked most about the guy. “You didn’t expect that to happen though, did you?”

Cas has the ability to read him, dead to rights, every time.

“No, s’pose I didn’t.” He’s been dealing with shame for a while, but it’s particularly strong now, when he can feel Cas’ focus. He rubs the back of his neck, grimaces when he realizes he’s just smeared gun oil in his hair. He coughs. “I… I slept around while I was soulless. I stopped after. Shouldn’t have gotten jealous.”

Cas sounds remarkably gentle. “Well, I forgive you. For actions done without a soul, and for stupidity in response to… what I imagine was at least half as much shock as I felt seeing you.” Dean makes a vaguely verbal response. This is the worst conversation he’s had in ages. It doesn’t get better, he knows it won’t, when Cas lets out a frustrated grunt and choppily says, “We… We didn’t part as lovers, Dean.”

It takes a lot of restraint to stick to the mutual not-looking at each other thing. “What’re you talking about? First you died, then I died...”

“Before that. I did a lot of retrospection, and I realized that during the Apocalypse, I’d essentially been leading you on. I didn’t realize how to articulate my feelings until Gabriel called them out. So for that I apologize.”

“What, Cas, that’s…” Dean needs to leave the room. The motel room has a bathroom, so he makes a point to wash his hands and neck. Slaps his face for good measure. “You weren’t leading me on,” He calls to the other room, aiming for casual. “Forget about how it ended. You gave me a good thing to focus on when everything was going to shit. Sorry if… uh… I was too intense, or you didn’t feel the same way, or…”

“I was in love with you,” Cas declares, his voice a lot closer than Dean’d expected. He whirls around, planting his lower back on the sink’s edge. Cas hovers in the doorway. He’s got that old warrior expression on his face, like the bathroom is a battleground. Dean’s heart’s thumping like he’s right.

“Was?”

It’s… Fuck, this is why he couldn’t forget about Cas. Everything about him dials Dean up to eleven. How can he be this hopeful and still dread the answer so much?

“We need to defeat Eve,” Cas reminds him, “After that we can… tackle the rest.” He exits the bathroom, leaving Dean feeling like any grasp he had on the situation just spiraled wildly out of control.

 

* * *

 

“Harry and Stein didn’t wanna come?” Meg baits him as they traipse into the diner, the bell chiming above their heads.

Sam glares at her, dropping the duffel bag by the counter. “They’re watching the kids,” Which is true. Ryan and Joe had survived the monster hybrid attacks (he refuses to use Dean’s stupid name) but were badly shaken. That splitting up was a precaution against the volatile tension between Meg and Cas and Jo and Dean erupting on the job… that was a side benefit.

The hairs down Sam’s arms are suddenly standing at attention. The atmosphere’s all wrong. Meg and Cas either sense it, or sense his sudden disquiet, because they draw in like a cluster.

“Have a seat,” The young waitress says behind the counter.

“No thanks,” Sam gets out in a nice enough tone, “We were just—”

“Don’t be rude, Sam.” The waitress doesn’t smile. She sweeps her arm out at the three empty seats in front of her. A man gets up from his table and locks the door. A woman lowers the blinds at her table.

They’re surrounded.

Gingerly, the three settle onto the vinyl-topped stools. “Let me guess,” Sam says, “Eve?” She raises her chin; she’s composed, relaxed, utterly in command. One of creatures takes the duffel and pulls out a shotgun. Eve gives the barrel a sniff.

“I’m impressed.” To the creature, she says, “Destroy these, thank you.” Eve leans on the linoleum, and takes in their defensive posture. “Relax, I’m not here to fight.”

“Good,” Meg says, as cool in the face of danger as Sam’s ever seen her, “Because we might surprise you.”

Eve taps her chin thoughtfully. “A hunter, a demon, and a de-winged angel walk into a bar. I haven’t got a punchline yet, not a funny one anyway.”

“You’re not here to fight,” Cas repeats, “But you’ve got us ambushed by your hybrid mutts,” He says it to get a rise out of her, and it works, Eve’s eyes flash, “And you know we were prepared to kill you, so why are you here?”

“I just want to talk,” She declares, fiercely holding Cas’ gaze, “Like civilized beings.”

“You’re killing people,” Sam says, too incredulous to keep his neutral non-threatening tone.

“Only for a good cause,” Eve tells him. She reads his skepticism. “Maybe you’d believe me if I looked more like this.”

Eve shimmers and her appearance changes. Gone is the waitress with a girl’s round eyes and cheeks. In her place is a tall willowy blonde with a thin chiseled face. Mary Winchester lived to the ripe old age of 50 before she and John faced their last hunt. She’s at least two decades off. This is a face Sam has only seen in photos. He breathes slowly, can’t let her see what it does to him.

“Can we quit the Oedipus shit and cut to chase?” Meg demands. “You wanted to talk, you‘re pulling out all the smoke and mirrors to get our attention, well you’ve got it.”

Mary — no — _fucking_ Eve smiles benevolently. “Let Mother tell you a story,” She begins sweetly.

“My name isn’t Eve, as in wife of Adam. I’m Eve… I’m the Beginning. The Before. The Precipice of Time.

“Everyone likes to say God created everything, but that’s giving him too much credit. There were many of us, the Creators. There was Life, the _very_ first forms of life, and there was Death. There was Darkness, and there was Light, or as you know him, God. There was me, and there was the Multitude, the Leviathan.” It’s a name he’s only heard referenced before, when Jo returned from Purgatory with horror stories of black ooze.

“Now, God made his archangels and his angels, and I made my monsters. Death made the reapers, because once we started carrying on, Death couldn’t keep up with all of us. Heck, even Lucifer got in on the action and made his demons.” She titters, giddy now she’s getting into the tale. “God would like you to think he made Mankind, but I don’t believe that. I think maybe you were like us. I think you weren’t created by anyone but yourselves. God just liked you, took you under his wing, so to speak. And that’s fine, we all need our hobbies. Who knew it would lead to such wonderful discord.

“I was content with the natural order. My children took a few humans, and vice versa. I never wanted Earth. I was more than happy reigning over my beloved children in Purgatory.”

“Then why did you rise?” Sam asks, seeing something new in the monster. She’s older than they realized, wiser. It colors and changes everything they thought. She meets his gaze with a glint like pride. “Why now?”

“Raphael,” Eve announces, so unexpected that everyone blinks, “Is upsetting the natural order. She’s got her fingers in all the pies,” In a deft move, she dips her pinky in the whipped cream of a display pie, “She forgets her place.” She sucks her pinky, and Sam has to glance away; it’s his mother’s face she’s wearing.

Cas continues the interrogation. “Why care about Heaven when you have Purgatory?”

“Raphael is keeping my children from me,” Eve says, steel in her voice. “I don’t know how, but the souls of my children haven’t been reaching Purgatory as they should. I’m going to find out what she’s done, and then I’ll tear her wings off and strangle her with her own halo.”

Meg jumps in like a shark at the scent of blood. “Mother of All, if what you want is Heaven cracked like an oyster, you need Hell on your side. Depose Crowley, and you’ll be unstoppable.”

“Demon, Hell means nothing to me, and you insult me to imply that I’m not already unstoppable.”

Sam glares at Meg, who merely shrugs, “Had to try.” Cas doesn’t react, and Sam wonders if he knew she had an ulterior motive. What is he saying, a demon with a self-serving interest? Of course Cas knew.

“Hmm,” Eve says, a subtle shift to her demeanor, “Maybe you need convincing. Shall I show you how powerful I am?” All three of them, Meg included, sit perfectly still with dread. Eve snaps her fingers, and four of her creatures come in, bearing Jo and Dean’s limp unconscious bodies. Tension snaps Sam’s spine straight. “That little babysitting job you tasked them with? I thought for sure you’d found me out, Sam Winchester, but silly me, it was just my good luck.”

“Ryan,” Sam breathes out. The kid hadn’t said a word the whole time. Sam assumed he was traumatized. He’d trusted too easily. _Stupid_.

“My greatest success. A monster so powerful and undetectable to hunters,” She looks to Cas, “Angels,” to Meg, “And demons alike. My formula’s perfect, and soon I’ll have an invincible army, and Raphael will have no chance.” Eve moves, her waitress uniform swishing by her knees, to Jo’s side. She lovingly brushes the hair over Jo’s shoulder. “You’ll make wonderful soldiers,” Eve murmurs, “You’re mostly there already. Just one bite…”

“No!” Sam cries out, half out of his seat when a supernaturally strong hand presses his shoulder down. He struggles. It’s not an act. Eve laughs, but she has no idea, no clue. “Stop! We’re on the same side! We can work together!”

Eve bites into Jo’s neck, and once she pierces the artery, it’s all over. They all took shots of diluted Phoenix Ash, one last precaution. Apparently the concentration didn’t matter, and the tiny amount in Jo’s blood is instantly fatal. The Mother of All spasms, her children falling to the ground, and the diner reeks of death in moments.

“Dammit!” Sam pounds his fist into the counter. Behind him Cas goes to Dean and Jo to bring them round to consciousness, but Sam can’t move. “We had it! Dammit! She was on our side!”

His fist gets caught coming down this time, and he meets Meg’s steady gaze. “Breaking your hand isn’t going to fix this. Use that big brain and think for a minute. Who told you Phoenix Ash was the only way?”

No. Anna couldn’t have known Eve wanted Raphael gone. She wouldn’t have armed them against her. Anna…

A seed of suspicion plants in the fertile soil of Sam’s mind.

 

* * *

 

Eve hovers in darkness. She’s waiting. For what, she doesn’t know, until she hears the voice.

“Child,” Only a few beings can speak down to her, and this voice belongs to one, “You got into some nasty trouble.”

Eve smiles as she greets, “Death.”

The skeletal figure traces one bony hand on her cheek. “I never intended to reap you, dear child. What happened?”

Her hurt and anger, buried first by the surprise of seeing Death, returns. “Why have you neglected me?” Death tilts their head, vertebrae creaking. “My children have died, but their souls have been kept from me. I know. I see through their eyes as they die, and I wait with open arms, but I am left bereft. You’ve been neglecting me,” She repeats, holding Death’s hand to her cheek, refusing to give up their comfort.

Death releases a soft sound, unclassifiable, before they speak. “I knew there was a problem. You’re not the only one missing children. My reapers are dwindling. I thought they were being attacked, though now I wonder…”

“It’s Raphael, isn’t it?”

“It shouldn’t be possible. That little insect should not have the power to corrupt my children. Yet it does seem logical.”

“What can we do?”

For the first time, Death looks at her sharply, and Eve quivers. “Raphael may defy the natural order, but I will not. My kindness to you, dear child, is not to disintegrate you and scatter you through the void. I will return you to Purgatory, and there you will reign. Should you attempt to return to life, or venture anywhere outside your plane, I will not be so merciful. You understand?”

“Yes,” Eve sobs, clutching her elder, pressing herself to their breast, “Yes, love, yes, I understand, thank you, thank you.”

 

* * *

 

“You can’t be serious,” Dean blurts out when they drop Cas and Meg off at their car, “What are you, a drug dealer? Have you got a pager too?”

Meg holds up her hand, “Believe me, I’ve made every joke in the book.”

“I like it,” Cas stubbornly says. His chin tilts up and his upper lip presses down. He’s got all these human mannerisms and Dean knows none of them anymore.

It was cramped in the Impala with five of them. Sam and Dean can’t share a seat with a third, their legs are too long, so Jo got shunted to the back. He’s glad she’s still in there with Sammy, but whatever his brother wanted to talk to her about, he hopes it’s not gonna make her more spitting mad.

Plus it affords him one last ditch effort to save the only meaningful relationship he’s had in years.

“Cas,” He starts, glancing at Meg when she shifts awkwardly away, “What’re you doing?” That’s not a good line, so before Cas can get offended, Dean revises it. “What’re you gonna do now? Back to Pontiac? Or are you a full-blown hunter now?”

“I…” Cas ponders his answer. Dean’s heart beats double time. “I enjoy hunting. Although in light of what Eve told us, I feel compelled to offer some resistance to Raphael.”

Meg exclaims, “What?” as Dean says, “No!”

Cas, wary and confused, glances between the two. “Why shouldn’t I? Raphael’s a clear and present danger.”

“You got out of that life, man,” Dean tells him, “You have your family on Earth, you shouldn’t be running around fixing Heaven or hunting.”

Cas bristles. “I had no purpose in Pontiac, Dean. I was adrift until Meg gave me a task, one that I am good at, by the way.”

He doesn’t get it. Cas hasn’t been doing this long enough for perspective to sink in. Sure, when Dean was fresh faced and starry eyed, he wanted to hunt for the rest of his life. Now he’s got decades of Hell rattling around his noggin, a year of soullessness on Earth, and ghosts he can never burn dogging his steps. He’s had dreams about sitting in the Novak’s living room with an arm draped on Cas’ shoulders. Only now he sees Cas doesn’t want any of that.

“Cas,” He grunts, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

“Trust you?” Cas repeats, a frown etched in his face. Dean braces himself but the hurt comes anyway. “I care about you, Dean, but forgive me if I have trouble trusting someone who hid for months, or worse, didn’t think I’d want to know…”

There’s no more defense he can offer. Dean takes it wordlessly.

“And you,” Cas rounds on Meg, who throws up her hands defensively, “What do you think I should or should not be doing with my life?”

“Hey, Clarence, you’re the only one who can make that call. Just don’t do anything stupid. If I were you, I would be keeping as far away from those dicks as possible.” She turns an unapologetic eye on Dean. “That means them too. Jo’s always gonna want to save the world, and the Winchesters are always gonna want to save Jo, that’s the way I’ve always seen it. They can’t _not_ tango with Heaven, but you can, and maybe we should try the path with the smallest chance of death.”

Meg… she isn’t wrong, not by half. Dean would so love to twist her words into petty jealousy, into the selfish deceit demons are known for, but she’s right. He’s got a pretty good idea what Sam’s telling Jo right now, based on the five minute synopsis he’d gotten upon regaining consciousness. Whatever happens next, it’s not going to be pretty.

Dean is the selfish one here, because all he wants is for Cas to come with them, in spite of the danger.

Cas looks at him, the piercing look he gave him way back when, like he’s looking into Dean’s soul. Was that why he stayed away for that dark year? He knew Cas would’ve seen it was missing? Dean wonders what Cas wants him to say. Does he want Dean to beg? Would it make a difference?

Cas gets in his Continental, and Dean isn’t going to drive himself crazy analyzing whatever that frown meant. Meg slides in the passenger side, holding Dean’s gaze. They’re both too tired for animosity, so they just watch each other as unhappy rivals. Dean lingers outside as long as he can until the Continental is no longer a blip on the horizon.

Wrung out and defeated, Dean ducks into the Impala, mid-argument.

“We just ask her, that’s all I’m saying,” Sam says like he’s been repeating himself.

“That’s an ambush! That’s a fucking ambush!”

“Look, if she’s innocent—”

“ _If?_ ”

“We’re going to the Roadhouse,” Dean announces, brooking no argument. “We’ll bring in Bobby, see what he thinks, and we won’t do _anything_ unless we all agree, capische?”

The terse silence is broken by the radio as he presses the dial. Fleetwood Mac filters out the speakers, and he changes to the tape deck quickly. The Lynyrd Skynyrd tape is prepped with “Simple Man” which hits like a punch to the solar plexus. He’ll take the hippie crap.

 

* * *

 

Kevin hates his life.

He wasn’t such a big fan when he was popping ritalin to keep up with his AP classes, striking out with girls, and having to retake the SATs for the fourth time to have shot at his dream school. Being a prophet is a hundred times worse.

“Come on, Kev, it’s been hours!”

Gabriel is the worst. He’s definitely no angel. He’s got the attention span of a toddler, he likes to talk and eat and drink alcohol even if it doesn’t affect him. When he gets pissy, Gabriel disappears for long stretches of time, and just when Kevin starts to worry, he shows up looking like a frat boy after a bender.

“This isn’t exactly my native language, okay!” Kevin shoots back.

He’d done as Gabriel taught him, letting the vague impressions filter into his consciousness. Slowly he got glimpses, some people, some beings made of light, and some objects. He pushed past the people and angels (he’s pretty sure that’s what they were), and focused on the objects. One called to him from Iran, and Gabriel returned with a stone plaque encased in clay. That one, they’d discovered after agonizing translation, described the Leviathan. Disappointed, Gabriel returned it.

This is the second tablet they’ve found, stolen from a private collector’s stash. Gabriel claims to have a feeling about this one, making him an absolute pain in the ass.

“It is though!” He insists. “You’re the only one alive who can read this! You’re just being a lil bitch about it!”

“My head is killing me!”

“Boo-hoo! Did Joan of Arc complain when we called on her?”

“I bet she did when she was _burned alive!_ ”

“Well, yes, but before that—”

“Boys, boys, that’s enough!” His mom storms in, glaring between him and the Archangel. Both of them bow their heads. “I don't care if it's not a school night, you need to keep the noise down. What’s the problem here?”

“He’s driving me crazy—”

“Kev’s not working fast enough—”

“Zip it,” Linda decrees.

If he hadn’t realized before, watching his mom boss around an Archangel would clinch it: his mom’s a badass.

“Gabriel, it is almost 1 AM. You know Kevin is working as hard as he can. Humans have their limits and you need to respect that.” Gabriel shuffles like a scolded kid and conjures himself a lollipop to suck on. “Kevin, to make him feel better, why don’t you share what you have translated so far?”

“I mean, that’s just it,” Kevin says, frustration leaking into his voice, “I don’t have a section translated yet, just words that stand out.” He points without touching the stone. “This symbol here means ‘lock’, this is ‘star’ I think, this might be ‘poison’ or ‘black’, I’m not sure—”

“Wait…” Gabriel plucks the lollipop from his mouth. “The Morningstar’s poison is what we called demons.” They stand still, contemplating what that means. “This is probably the demon tablet,” Gabriel posits, sounding disappointed. “It won’t be much use to us.”

Kevin, in his distraction, lets his fingers brush the worn stone face. The vision comes strong and the pain in his head ratchets up. He grits his teeth; this is why he tries not to do that.

_A woman with black eyes snarls. Wind breaks the stained glass of a church. Black smoke is sucked down into the ground. Someone breathes their last breaths._

“We shouldn’t put it back,” Kevin tells the Archangel, once he withdraws from the images. “We should keep it somewhere safe.”

Gabriel nods, accepting Kevin’s words as truth without hesitation. Fuck… that’s gotta be the weirdest part of the whole prophet deal. Gingerly, Gabriel picks up the demon tablet, and blinks out of existence. In the few moments he’s gone, Linda reaches out her hand and massages the back of Kevin’s neck. It’s a quick series of squeezes, but so tender. It’s one thing to love your mom, but in this moment, Kevin really appreciates her.

Gabriel returns and tosses something in the air. Linda catches it and opens her palm to find a set of keys.

“Congrats, Linda, you now own a storage unit in Des Moines,” Gabriel winks. “Don’t let that payment lapse, or the fate of the world will be on your hands.”

Linda snipes, “Next time, buy flowers.”

 

* * *

 

“The conquering heroes,” Ruby calls out as her favorite trio practically drag themselves through the Roadhouse. It’s a relatively busy night for the dive. She’s gotten to know the hunter network very well, and it seems like her regulars are celebrating something tonight. Everyone’s getting drunk, anyway, so that’s something. “Can I get some drinks in you or what?”

Dean’s mood seems blacker than ever, but he musters up a charming smile for her. “No thanks, Ruby. I’ve got a bottle of Jack with my name on it.”

“Well alright, Jack,” She replies with a tactical eyebrow raise. She tracks Dean as he moves past her to the back, until Sam crosses her field of vision. Then the taller Winchester earns her full attention. “How ‘bout you, Sammy? Thirsty?” Sam blushes like he never got hit on by a chick before. It’s half the reason Ruby keeps doing it, that and his abs.

“I think I’ve gotta stick with, Dean,” Sam tells her, with enough regret she can forgive him, “Make sure he doesn’t drown in that bottle.”

“Good luck.” Sam passes by, head ducked like it can make up for his towering 6 feet of rock hard body.

“You’re doing good,” Lucifer remarks, “Were you an actress or something in a past life?” She’s kicking her heels against the back of the bar, in a _tap, tap, tap, tap, endlessly_.

Jo lurches to rest her elbows on the bartop. “I could use a beer.”

“Sure thing, sis.” Ruby spins around to pull the handle for the draught. Jo likes a light beer, she’s noticed, so she gives her Blue Moon. Keeping her back turned, using the rapidly filling glass as an excuse, Ruby asks, “You sticking around a while?” It’s with the kind of tone she can play off if the answer is no.

“Need to talk over some shit with Bobby,” Jo says, and Ruby nods like that’s an answer.

“Bobby this, Bobby that,” Lucifer sings, “What’s so great about the geezer anyway?”

When Ruby passes over the drink, she leans in a little. “How was this one? Bobby sounded worried.”

Jo swallows a big gulp. “Yeah, well… it kinda went above our pay grade, but we came out okay. Had some help we didn’t expect.” She shrugs. “Truthfully Sam could tell you more than me.”

“Oh goodie,” Ruby grins, “An excuse.” Jo’s face does a weird thing, like she’s not sure how to respond to the joke. A halfhearted apology is on her tongue when Ruby catches sight of another customer wanting her attention. “Be right back.”

“Sure, leave me alone with Jo,” Her shadow taunts, “It’s all I wanted anyway.”

Not real, Ruby reminds herself while she gets the hunter a refill. Jo is still alive and gulping her beer when she returns.

“Must get awkward,” Ruby blazes into the conversation they weren’t having, “Traveling with two men all the time.”

Jo rolls her eyes playfully, like she’s never heard that one before. “We’ve been at it so long, we barely notice. Never even bump elbows in doorways anymore, you know?”

No, she doesn’t, but she’s not gonna mention. She hastily makes a quip. “Plus I guess with _those_ two men, there’re a few perks.” Same expression on her face, like something doesn’t compute. Ruby’s fucking committed to eating her foot, so she gestures up and down to denote their ridiculous height, and babbles, “What with one Winchester looking like a Ken doll and the other a mountain of… I can’t think of an adequate metaphor, but he’s attractive, is what I’m saying.”

“Oh,” Jo says, leaning back. It’s like there’s an exclamation mark over her head as things finally click. “Oh!” Ruby wishes she got it. She’s feeling like an idiot. “Oh, well, uh…” Jo licks her lips, “I don’t really, um…”

Her mouth won’t stop. “Must be window dressing or something by now, huh? Like a Monet in the John?”

Jo raps her fingers on the bar, out of time from Lucifer’s _tap, tap, tapping_. “Sam and Dean… _really…_ aren’t my type.” As if sent from God to drive the point home, a woman in unseasonably short denim cutoffs walks past towards the bathroom, and Jo’s gaze takes the long road down her body. She doesn’t need to look back at Ruby and waggle her brows. Ruby finally gets it

“Wow,” Lucifer crows, “You’re a worse fuckup than me! Did I know about this? I’m the devil, I must’ve known. Fuck, what’s it like when the _actual devil_ knows more about your sister than you do?”

Seriously, when will the vortex to Hell reopen and claim her?

“Um, Ruby?” She blinks at Jo. Her sister is shifting and there’s a line down her forehead.

Lucifer catches on first. “Now she thinks you’re a homophobe ‘cause you’ve been listening to me all this time. You’re really batting it out of the park.”

“I was just putting a lot of clues together,” Ruby says in as a level a voice as she possesses. “It’s funny how one conversation can make you feel like a total fucking moron.” In this whole mess of an evening, Jo belts out a laugh, at long last.

“You’re not free and clear, babe,” Lucifer says, her heels clacking on the wood, “I’m going to break your fucking gourd, and then you’ll be riding high off killing your family, and Jo’s hunky hunter bros. I’ll make you watch, whatever scraps of sanity you have left, I’ll force them to witness the end of everything you love. We’ll ruin this damned planet together, Ruby, I swear it.”

“Shit, I was scared there for a second,” Jo chuckles, slamming back the rest of her beer. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Ruby loves her. It’s gonna kill her.

“Yeah, me too.”

 

* * *

 

His phone rings, with a picture Claire took with his rear-facing camera. It was during the winter after he returned to Pontiac, her hair was still straight, and she didn’t wear makeup. She’d teased him mercilessly for not knowing what ‘selfie’ meant.

Claire never calls. She only texts.

“Hello,” Cas rasps into the phone. He exchanges a look with Meg. She picks up on his apprehension and slows the car, starts pulling it off to the roadside.

“Cas,” His niece's voice warbles with fear, “I-I don’t know what to do. Some men came a-and… they took Daddy and Mommy away. Please, please, Cas, you have to come, I’m so scared.”

“Who are you?” Cas asks, hand clenching around his blade, as if he can slay the intruder right then. “Demon or angel?”

A long pause, then a hum. “Weird, we really thought you’d go for that.”

There’s a jumble of sound, and a new voice takes the phone. “Castiel, my busy bee, you’re smarter than your halo would suggest.”

“I don’t have a halo anymore, Crowley,” Cas addresses him for Meg’s sake. She closes her eyes and plants her face in her palms. “What do you want? I’m assuming you intend to bargain for my family’s lives.”

“Oh sure, we can hash that all out when you return to the homestead. Just be sure to bring your Satan-worshipping whore with you. Don’t tarry.”

The line cuts out. Cas turns to Meg. “He hasn’t forgotten you, at least we know for sure now.”

“Unless you’ve been seeing other people,” Meg quips, but her heart’s not in it, she keeps her posture hunched and her eyes shut. It’s an unusual move for them, but Cas reaches over and wraps his arms around her stiff shoulders. She doesn’t appear comforted. “What are you doing?”

“This is a hug, Meg, I’m hugging you.”

“Ugh, why’d I ever shack up with an angel?” In spite of her words, she pats his hand where it settled on her front. “We’ll get the Novaks safe, Clarence. Crowley can lick my asshole, he’s not gonna win this one.”

“I won’t let him hurt you either,” Cas tells her. She finally sits up and pins him with her dark gaze.

“One of these days you should stop going to bat for me. I’m one demon. I’ve tortured and murdered humans for centuries. I worked for Azazel and Lucifer because they gave me purpose, someone to do those evil things for, so I didn’t have to feel like it was just for kicks. I dragged you out of the Novak’s living room on rumors that the Mother of All was being resurrected, ‘cause I had this stupid idea that I could use her to topple Crowley and save my own ass. I’m not Dean, okay, I’m not worth that kind of devotion.”

Cas shakes his head. He tactfully sidesteps her mention of Dean; she knows the situation there is too complicated to boil down. He speaks from his heart. “You’re a different kind of demon than I’ve ever known. You say you only care about yourself, but I’ve seen that isn’t true. Even in your previous allegiances, you would have given your life to help their causes. And I’ve seen you go to great lengths to save me too.”

“Fighting Eve’s creepy-crawlies isn’t the same, we had to have each other’s backs.”

“Since last summer, I’ve never doubted that you would protect me, and that hasn’t changed now that Eve is dead.” Meg meets his eyes, and he can see that she agrees; it hadn’t occurred to her to end their partnership without Eve as her endgame. “Let’s go to Pontiac, and we’ll think of something on the way. I’m not giving you up.”

“Oh babydoll,” Meg says, her smirk undercut by the affection in her eyes, “You really do care.”

 

* * *

 

Bobby offered them up Rufus’ cabin. The man himself was coming back from a job and wouldn’t mind. It has the advantage of being isolated and built like a freaking panic shelter. The possibility of this going south is all too real to Sam. Jo remains staunchly optimistic, even while she clasps her hands and bows her head.

“Hey Anna,” She says in a low, private tone, “Can you come down, we could use your help.”

“Jo,” The angel greets, stepping out of thin air. “Are you alright? Did Eve give you trouble?” Like an afterthought, Anna notices him and Dean. She smiles at his brother. “Dean, it’s a relief to see you whole again.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean grunts, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The two haven’t interacted at all. It’s got to be weird; Dean hasn’t said a peep, but he’s got to have a mix of resentful and grateful feelings for the angel that botched his resurrection.

Sam hopes very much that his suspicions are wrong.

“Eve is dead,” Jo announces, and Sam spots the slight flicker of satisfaction Anna can’t hide. The tightening of Jo’s posture tells Sam she saw it too. “There’s just some loose ends to tie up.”

“You might be able to help,” Sam says, gratified that Anna’s gaze swivels to him. It fits in their plan, to keep her off-kilter. “Eve made a ton of creatures, hybrids, it’s been murder tracking them down.” All lies. As far as they can tell, her new lineages perished along with her.

“Of course,” Anna eagerly steps forward, “What’s the monster?”

Dean flicks on the lighter. “You.” It falls, and Holy Fire erupts around Anna’s feet. The rise in temperature and tension is unmistakable. The amber light throws eerie shadows up under the Angel’s chin. She turns, examining the line with wide eyes, before meeting Jo’s gaze.

“Jo, what is this?” She asks, all ingenue in her voice. It's a good tactic, and he's relieved none of them appear moved, Jo especially.

“Why did you want Eve dead so badly?”

“You wanted her dead,” Anna says, glancing to him and Dean for support. “I wanted to help.”

“Eve was powerful,” Sam takes over, “Older than we thought. Claimed she was basically on par with God.”

A hint of the righteous warrior peeks through. “Blasphemous lies.”

“She hated Raphael, did you know that?” Anna doesn’t so much as twitch. “That’s why she rose. Eve would’ve happily ganked Raphael herself. We may’ve been able to convince her not use humanity to do it, if we’d had a chance to try.”

“You’re a strategist, Anna,” says Jo. “All you’ve been talking about are weapons to use against Raphael. Why didn’t it occur to you to use her?”

A long, dreadful pause, and Anna says, “If I made a mistake, I’m—”

“Stop apologizing,” Jo snarls, advancing to the line of fire, “Just answer the damn question: are you keeping secrets from us?”

“Why…”  Anna halts. Watching her, Sam imagines he can hear gears clicking in her head. Like an automaton. Like…

Anna’s whole body snaps to attention. She stares straight ahead, ignoring the humans in the room. From their half circle enclosing the ring of fire, Sam, Dean, and Jo exchange glances.

“Well, Anael,” The low, smug tone comes from behind them, “It seems it’s time to confess at last.”

 


	3. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian translations:
> 
>  _Zir noco iod Anael_  
>  I am the servant of the eternal god, Anael
> 
>  _Balit zirdo ol Raphael ___  
> Righteous servant of Raphael
> 
>  _Bolp a-m-ipzi_  
>  Be thou restrained

 

 

**_Two Years Ago_ **

 

_The Archangel Raphael descends to a portion of Heaven that few angels retain the knowledge of. It’s perceived as white walls and tiled floors, a projection of its purpose: sterilization. Upon entering, he seeks the angel in charge._

_“Naomi,” He greets his sibling. Her preferred guise is female, severe, older than her true age. Raphael is grateful she does not bother posturing before him._

_“Raphael, why have I been blessed by the attention of an Archangel?”_

_He pays her flattery no mind. “You were tasked with correcting the former seraph Castiel multiple times. You failed in every attempt. He eluded us for decades on Earth and joined forces with the humans who imprisoned my brothers. I wish to understand your level of incompetence so that the next angel in your position will not fail so spectacularly.”_

_It would be blasphemy to address him with any honorific, but there’s deference in all her mannerisms. “Raphael, I assure you that it was not my methods that were flawed, it’s Castiel. I’ve maintained that he’s always had a crack in his chassis.”_

_“To imply he was made wrong would be to imply our maker fallible.”_

_“Then he was damaged. Infected by Earth. His insubordination is well documented since the plagues of Egypt. I smoothed him clean over and over, but the deformity was at his heart, I’m sure of it.”_

_Infection. Yes, Raphael muses, it is apt. Seraphs are not made for Free Will, they are soldiers, grunts. Independent thought was reserved for the highest echelon of the Host, so that they may better interpret the Word. And yet, from the fallen Castiel, to Anael, to her growing number of human sympathizers, the infection has spread. It requires a cure._

_“Say that I let you live,” Raphael posits, observing Naomi blanche, “How would you rectify the situation?”_

_It takes the angel some time to formulate a response. Her voice when it comes trembles, lacking the confidence of most celestial bodies. “The demon Alastair was capable of torturing angels. It has been documented that demons can exert enough stress upon their captives to reveal their essence, that is, not their grace, their… wiring. It is said that is how Lucifer created the first Knights of Hell out of his fallen angel comrades.” She pauses, looking to her superior for confirmation. Raphael does not budge. “If this process could be improved upon, it may go beyond our methods of sterilization.”_

_“You could work with a demon?”_

_“For the glory of Heaven, yes. And then we may finally be able to fix Castiel, and bring the unruly rebellion back in line.”_

_Raphael graces Naomi with a smile. He may actually warm to this angel._

 

* * *

_“Reapers are one thing,” Crowley drawls, pushing the nails into the head of red hair, “But you, Wings? You’re going to be a real challenge.” He leans in, flicking his gaze between her vacant hazel eyes. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’m truly, genuinely, a bit miffed that I have to do this. You got me out from under the thumb of one Archangel, thanks for that, by the way. Did I ever thank you? You gave me Hell, far as I’m concerned I owe you one. It’s a shame I got myself leashed by another of your trumped up, fluffy feathered, bastard—”_

_“Hold your tongue, demon,” Chimes the prissy voice he despises._

_“I’m working here,” He barks over his shoulder, “They’re my methods, I’ll say whatever I like. You are here in an observational capacity only, so keep your holy trap shut.”_

_Naomi clenches her jaw. “Get on with it then.”_

_Crowley, contrary to the core, tightens the screws with aching slowness. Her hands jerk on the restraints, but there’s no life in her face, no trace of pain. Odd, but that’s a relief to Crowley._

_“As I was saying,” He continues idly, addressing his charge, “Reapers are one thing. They’re simple creatures really. Oh, powerful to be sure, but they’re a tool. They have basic functions. A goes to Heaven, B goes to Purgatory, C goes to Hell. It’s not much work to rewrite all that to A, B, and C go straight into Raphael’s pocket.”_

_He shoots Naomi one vicious glance. “You’d think angels could manage that themselves. Lucky me, I’m the independent contractor they call on. Hard to turn down an offer like, ‘Work with us, or we kill you where you stand.’” Is this his confession, Crowley wonders as he looks down at the angel in his rig. Is he looking for absolution from the vacant shell? Foolish endeavor._

_“You, Wings,” Crowley tells her, without bothering to disguise his reverence, “You require a delicate touch. Less hotwiring a car, more re-programming a high end motherboard. Promise I’ll be gentle, love.”_

_Crowley is opportunistic and firm. No one ever said he was merciful._

_The sigils he’s chained her with tie her grace closer to the vessel than should be possible. The iron pokers going into the vessel’s brain are reaching into her very core. They render her blank, while he drills and drills and drills, going ever deeper, twisting this way and that. He’s searching for the most basic of her being, and hears it when he finds it._

_“_ Zir noco iod Anael. _”_

 

* * *

_“Again,” Naomi commands._

_Jo screams as the blade is plunged into her flesh._

_Once there were more of them. Sam, and Dean, and Jo, all running, all pleading for their lives, all screaming._

_Now there’s only one._

_“Again.”_

_Sam had given her the least trouble, so once she mastered that, he was no longer needed. Dean followed shortly after._

_Jo was the weakness they’d identified._

_Jo screams._

_“Again.”_

_Anna can’t remember why._

_Jo screams._

_“Again.”_

Zir noco iod Anael.

_Jo screams._

Balit zirdo ol Raphael.

_Naomi’s praise comes in the quiet between falling bodies and terror. “That’s very good, Anael.” The next Jo does not come. The silence is long and painful. Where is Jo? She wants Jo. She misses Jo. “You’re finally ready.”_

 

* * *

 

Sam can’t breathe.

None of them can.

“Isn’t it remarkable?” Raphael says as she circles the Holy Fire. She regards Anna like a farmer would a cow. “The combination of Heaven and Hell’s greatest minds, culminating in my perfect reformed Seraph.” Anna doesn’t preen; the words slide over her head. “Obeying my every order and throwing the rebellion into chaos, regaining your trust, and dispatching the greatest threat to my success, the abomination Eve. She’s done very well, wouldn’t you say, Jo?”

Sam doesn’t look, he can’t, but he hears the choked noise that escapes her.

Raphael waves her hand and the Holy Fire disappears. “Anael, it’s time to complete your mission. Go.”

Sharply, Anna nods, and their friend is gone.

She’s been gone for months. They’d never gotten her back from Hell. Sam feels like a fool.

“So,” Jo speaks up, nearly giving Sam a heart attack. Her voice is _wrecked_ , too much emotion and possibly tears choking her up, but she won’t stay quiet. “You got all the puffy clouds under your thumb. Good — Great for you. But if you think we’re gonna let you mess with Earth, you’re as stupid as your big brothers.”

“Your arrogance is hilarious,” Raphael states, deadpan. “I shall create Hell on Earth, and you can’t do a thing to stop me. It’s already begun.” The Archangel strides forward, and Sam wishes his legs would move. Raphael only has eyes for Jo, who doesn’t back up. “Would you like to know where I started?” She baits Jo. No reply but defiant silence. “I appreciate the classics. The Roadhouse is burning, Jo Harvelle. Would you like to see?”

There’s only a second where Jo’s entire face pales before she’s been vanished and Raphael leans back with sick satisfaction.

“Hey, bitch,” Dean calls out. It draws the Archangel’s wrath which fizzles out when she sees what Dean’s done. On the wall is blood-smeared Enochian, and Dean slaps his bloody palm into it’s center. White light erupts from the sigil and engulfs the Archangel. Sam shuts his eyes, and finally, _finally_ breathes.

The darkness creeps back in, as does the voice, “You’re too late for that.” Sam opens his eyes, hopeless already. Raphael stands tall, smirking, and Dean’s blood drips uselessly onto the floor.

Sam knows with certainty, they’ve _lost_.

 

* * *

 

“Damn them!” Balthazar tears into the Roadhouse, clutching his side. “Ash! Bloody fuck, Ash, where are you! We were set up, damn it!” His voice echoes through the heavenly plot, and with the sense of emptiness comes dread. “Ash? Hester? Inias?”

“What’s the matter, brother?” He whirls around. Anna stands behind the bar, her head tilted in worry, her wings drawn in. Balthazar sighs his relief. Gingerly, he exposes his side. The shimmer of grace peers out through his vessel’s ribs.

“The last message Ash intercepted,” Balthazar hastens to explain, “It wasn’t a miracle, it was Raphael’s followers. There’s a traitor amongst us, it’s the only way Raphael could have known we were listening to their wavelengths.” He knocks his knuckles on the solid wood. “Where’s Ash?”

“A cupid found him a soulmate,” Anna tells him, “He’s in her Heaven now, and once he stops struggling to escape, he’ll fall in love and spend the rest of his existence blissfully happy.” It’s so utterly nonsensical that Balthazar wonders if he’s hallucinating.

Anna circles the bar to press her hand to his side. He welcomes her pressure, breathes more deeply. Anna’s presence is a comfort. She saw him through countless injuries over their sieges together. Her warmth, her cadence, her grace, lulls him to shut his eyes.

Anna goes on, her voice pitched low and sweet. “Hester and Inias are considered redeemable. Your time on Earth, your thievery, your hedonism, they’re all marks against you. This is the only way, Balthazar.”

Balthazar chokes, gasps, and looks down. Anna’s blade is a straight line from her fist through his diaphragm and out his back. He meets her eyes, this vessel’s brown-ringed hazel, and longs to see the Anael who once held his hand as they flew through burning cities.

She’s dead, and soon, so is he.

 

* * *

 

When Jo was on the cusp of 23, her mother was burned alive in an ambush by some followers of the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Back then she didn’t know this was all part of some cosmic plan, that Ellen was supposed to be the Righteous Woman to set off the Apocalypse. No, she just lost her mother, and she did the only thing she could think of: she sold her soul to the same demons who murdered her. Ellen’s soul was freed and laid to rest, and Jo took up the mantle, and broke when she picked up the knife, broke the whole damn world.

Anyway, she hadn’t seen the Roadhouse burn, she’d driven up the path to the rubble and ashes. This must’ve been what it was like.

“NO!” Jo rushes blindly toward the pillar of flame. She makes it until the heat sears her eyes but something stops her. “GOD DAMN FUCKING ANGELS!” She roars, struggling against the invisible wall. “BOBBY!” She screams, the smoke creeping into her lungs, but she doesn’t care. “BOBBY! _RUBY!_ ”

The Roadhouse burns.

Jo can’t keep pounding her knuckles against a force that doesn’t even have the decency to break her skin. At some point the roof caves in and Jo falls to her knees.

She prays to every angel, deity, and demon she knows. There’re no replies.

When it’s quiet, when there’s nothing left to catch, and the air is clearing, Jo feels an unnatural ripple. Her hand passes through space, and she leaps to her feet and staggers to the remains of her life. Heedless of the danger, Jo picks her way through to the bar.

The smell of soot is overpowering but beneath it there’s something she’s far too familiar with. She’s salted and burned enough bodies to recognize flesh. It takes her until the back room to find its source. They’re slumped on the poker table, charred beyond recognition. Two bodies, skeletal arms reaching for each other, hands clasped on melted green felt.

“No,” Jo sighs, the lament seeping out of her with every exhale, “No, no, no, no…” Until she’d rather not breathe at all.

 

* * *

 

“They’re dead,” Meg feels it as soon as they walk in the door, “They’re already dead.” As close as he stands, when Cas tenses with restrained fury, her body does the same. In the living room, there’s an assembly of demons, at the center of which is Crowley.

To his right, the blonde girl with Cas’ eyes laughs, “Whoopsie-daisy!”

“Crowley,” Cas bares his teeth and advances several paces, “We had a deal.”

The King of Hell hums with feigned confusion, “No, I don’t think we did. I certainly don’t recall kissing those plump lips of yours, angel.” He raises a brow at Meg. “Wrong demon?”

Cas wastes no more time. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas_...”

Meg knew it would hurt, braced herself for it, but the pain still spears through her like lightning. She doubles over, clutching her stomach where she burns. Her vessel heaves, attempting to vomit, the closest approximation of expelling her spirit that it can.

The devil’s trap Cas carved into her stomach is all that’s keeping her black smoke contained.

Finally, after interminable years, the wrenching of her spirit stops and the pain fades. Meg throws her head back to look around. Cas kneels beside his niece’s limp body. He holds two fingers to her neck, and she watches his whole body relax at the pulse he must find there. The rest of the demons vessels are all there, in varying stages of death or unconsciousness depending on the length of possession, all but one..

“Clever trick,” Crowley says out of nowhere, “Good thing I’ve got a higher power watching over me.” Meg stumbles to her feet, whirling to face him. With the movement comes the ominous sense all demons feel in the presence of...

Angels.

Meg is flung to a wall, and held there by intangible force. “Cas—” She chokes out before her voice is stolen.

“Castiel,” The angel’s voice rings out, “Finally.”

Cas loses all color. “Naomi.”

“I have the means,” The angel tells him, her voice practically brimming with excitement, “At last I can complete the mission I failed. I can _fix_ you, Castiel. At last you can come home.” The woman sounds deranged, Meg can picture her with a creepy Cas shrine up in her corner of Heaven.

“No,” Cas shakes his head, “No, please, never again.”

“Take him,” Naomi orders the angels flanking her. Meg can’t watch, but she’s helpless to block out the terrible sounds of Cas’ struggle, his pleas. When the silence comes, the force holding her up is gone, and surprised, she hits the floor. There’s no time to acclimate, before Crowley has dragged her up.

“Now,” He says lowly, “You and I have unfinished business.”

 

* * *

 

“You fools,” Raphael says, spreading her wings that glow so bright, Dean thinks he’s gonna burn out right there, “I’ve already won. Say hello to your new God.” Neither he nor Sam move. Raphael arches one penciled-on brow. “Kneel, if you expect to survive another minute.”

Jerkily, he and Sammy plant their knees on the cold ground. “Why keep us alive?” Dean forces himself to ask. “Not like there’s love lost here.”

Raphael steps forward and lets her hand hover over Dean’s cheek. He refuses to shrink back. “It’s fitting, I think, that Michael’s vessel witness me complete the task that he failed. Jo is too dangerous to leave alive, not when she inspires angels to madness. Dean Winchester, you will have to do.” She backs off, taking in him and Sam as a whole. “Hunters, born and bred. You’ll do well in the end of the world. There’ll be plenty of evil to slay, you may even prove yourselves worthy of Heaven. I’ll be, er, tightening the requirements to enter, you see.”

She chuckles to herself, turning her back on them. Sam looks to Dean for guidance, but what can he do? He burned their last chance. A Hail Mary won’t get them anywhere now. They’ve got no more chances.

Raphael waves him and Sam off with one lazy wrist.

“Run along little boys, I have work to do.”

 

* * *

 

Heaven has a white room where all aberrant behavior is corrected.

Castiel has been in this room more times than he can recall, and it instinctually fills him with dread. He thrashes in his captors hold, but they are angels, and he is not.

That’s a hopeful thought.

“I can’t be fixed!” He cries out. “I’m human! I’m human! Fuck you, _fuck you_ , I am human!”

“Not for long,” Naomi, the creature he reviles more than any other, states coldly. “I’ve prepared for this, Castiel.”

“ _Fuck—_ ” The angels throw him into a waiting chair as though he weighs nothing. In this place, he may not. Naomi snaps her fingers, and restraints link themselves around his wrists and ankles, and one leather strap appears on his mouth and wrenches his neck back as it gags him.

“I know how to save you,” She announces, and in her hand materializes a syringe. It glows and pulses and Cas shrinks away. “I believe this angel was known as Samandriel. He was a young thing, useless, and utterly corrupted by yours and Anael’s teachings.” Cas can barely recall such an angel, but there he is, in his purest essence. He struggles, though his restraints have no give. “His grace for your obedience is a fair trade.” It’s sick, her obsession. She could kill him and be done with it, but no. That’s what angels are at their core; fanatical.

Naomi slithers towards him, and he pours all his defiance into his glare. Grace or no, he won’t go willingly. The needle inches to his neck as Naomi leans in, savoring her victory. There’s rapture on her face.

“Too long,” She whispers, “But you’re mine again.”

The needle pierces his flesh, her thumb depresses the plunger, and Cas is filled with Heavenly power.

More importantly, he’s filled with _fear_.

Samandriel perished with a scream in his heart. He died with such terror that it seeped into his grace. This once pure Heavenly essence is no longer the cleansing bleach that kept angels in line. This grace wants to _live_.

Cas’ wings leap out of his back with such force that the room shakes. Heaven isn’t meant to be shook. Naomi and her two helpers recoil.

Cas _roars_. Leather snaps. Naomi’s power wanes.

 

* * *

 

Jo lay in wait.

She didn’t put up any wards. She sat on the hood of a rusted jalopy, one of Bobby’s projects. She kept the burnt out wreckage to her back. Her hands hold the angel blade from the basement armory for so long her fingers cramp.

Anna comes at last, none of the sparks and fanfare of their first meeting, none of the warmth of when they were comrades in arms. She stands, still as a statue and just as unfeeling.

“You bitch,” Jo rails, striking hard and fast, “You absolute bitch!” She doesn’t pull back her blows. She aims to kill. Anna evades with the speed and grace of a ballerina, drawing Jo into the dance. “You think I care? What they did to you? They fucked with your head, but that doesn’t fucking change a thing!” Anna strikes like a viper, a single right hook to Jo’s head. She veers right, but keeps her feet under her. Anna doesn’t press the advantage, goes back to maintaining distance. She’s toying with her, Jo realizes, and it boils her blood. “You should’ve been stronger! You just took it! Didn’t fight back!”

A vicious swing of the blade nearly nicks Anna’s ribs. There’s no flash of fear on her face, she’s as blank as ever.

“They were all counting on you!” Jo yells with all her might. “You let them down! My sister is dead and it’s your fault, you fucking cunt!” Anna blocks her, knocking the blow harmlessly away. Before Jo can jump back, the angel’s left fist has connected with her nose, and Jo hits the ground. The angel blade clatters to the floor. Blood streams over her mouth and flies when Jo spits, “You’re weak! How could you give in? Fucking…”

Anna tilts her head. “Who are you talking to?” It’s the only thing she’s said.

Yeah. Jo’s not an idiot. She can hear the self-hatred in her voice. Revulsion as strong as when she learned she’d broken the first seal in Hell. It burns so hot, hotter than any anger directed at Anna. It’s practically the only thing keeping her upright.

Anna grabs the collar of her jacket to keep her steady, right as she throws a punch so hard Jo’s head lolls like a ragdoll. It’s so bad, there aren’t even little tweety birds, just the feeling like her brain is screaming.

“I let you down,” Jo groans. She doesn’t have time to look up before another hit makes her gasp. “My fault, all my fault.” The hits keep coming. Punishment, as if Anna has decided Jo’s right, she deserves this rather than a quick death. “I’m sorry, Anna. Sorry, sor—” She’s thrown to the floor with shocking force. Jo struggles to sit up, staring at the angel.

Something’s changed. Anna quakes, the tendons of her fists flexing, and a stirring of emotion on her face.

“Anna,” Jo whispers, with a sliver of hope. Her name forces the angel’s eyes shut. One hand unclenches, fingers loose. “Please, Anna…” The angel blade on the floor flies to her grip. The twitches on her face smooth, and Anna looks at Jo with determination. Her heart sinks.

“Okay, Anna, it’s okay,” Jo murmurs. She isn’t talking to this angel, not anymore. As she’s lifted back into a kneeling position, manhandled with one hand as if she’s weightless, Jo speaks to the angel she used to know. “I forgive you, Anna. This isn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”

The blade is lifted. The angle of her arm will bring it down squarely between Jo’s eyes. A clean kill.

Jo looks up at her old friend. “I love you.”

There’s silence. Jo breathes. Inhale and exhale. Her heart beats, beat after beat after beat.

Anna’s mouth opens, and foreign words come out in a low creak. “ _Balit zirdo_ … _Balit zirdo ol_ … Jo...”

The angel blade slips from her grip.

“You’re alive,” Anna says as if she can’t believe it. Neither can Jo. The world’s axis tilts as Anna pulls her to her feet, and then again when her lips meet Jo’s. Anna is soft, chaste, and Jo buzzes from her scalp to her toes. When Anna pulls back, and there’s no blood on her mouth, Jo realizes why. The kiss, that buzz, was grace. She’s healed.

Jo cups the back of Anna’s head and kisses her deeply. She licks the kindness from her until Anna presses back roughly. Their passion is a desperate twisted thing. Jo’s nose is about the only thing that isn’t broken between them. She hadn’t realized angels could cry until there’s salt on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Anna sobs into her mouth, “I’m sorry.”

Jo hushes her, cupping her flushed cheeks, drawing her impossibly closer. Anna mumbles with urgency. Jo refuses to relinquish her mouth until Anna takes her hands and pries them off.

“Ruby is alive,” Anna says with revelation. Jo stares. “Jo, I know she is. I know her soul, I can feel her in the world.”

It hurts, so much, to hope, but Jo hears it in her voice. “Really? But… Bobby…?”

Anna shakes her head. “I’ll take you to her,” She says, pleadingly, “I can find her, bring you to her.” She hugs Jo tightly, and Jo can feel her prepare to take off.

“W-wait,” Jo stops her. “Are… are you really okay?”

Anna blinks. “No. I’m… I’m not under their control. I’m not myself either. I don’t know what I am, but I’m not okay.” She offers Jo no time to reply, they’re blinked out of existence and back in an instant. Her arms unwind, and Jo surveys their surroundings, half expecting an ambush. The night is quiet. They stand outside a hospital, and Jo’s heart sinks.

Out of the frying pan...

 

* * *

 

This place is different. Gabriel gets the sense the moment he appears at the crypt. Most of the time he hasn’t recognized the tablets by anything other than sight, but here… the surroundings thrum with it.

He’s deep in its dark and dismal bowels before he notices. It’s drawing him in, like a trance. Gabriel shakes himself, grounds his body in the physical plane, and advances more warily.

This was once one of Lucifer’s crypts, a holy place the Morningstar corrupted. Petty, that’s Lucy. It’s the last place one would expect an object touched by God, which fits his suspicion: someone deliberately placed the tablets after they left Heaven.

It’s easy, too easy Indie would say, to find the tablet. It sits waiting for him on an altar. The pull of it is stronger here, and Gabriel gets as far as hovering his hand over its grooved surface.

“Well, well, well,” A smarmy voice rings out, “I would never have expected _you_.” His body reveals nothing — no tension, no surprise, no fear — as Gabriel turns to face the speaker.

A small man, with an old face, though his true face is older. Short, shorter than Gabriel’s vessel, which makes a nice change. He’s smug, leaning on the wall of the crypt, as if he’s certain Gabriel can’t — or _won’t_ — harm him. Gabriel must be rusty, because he has to squint and think, before he can place him.

“Metatron,” He greets neutrally. The angel watches him, projecting nothing but calm.

Metatron was a unique angel; not an Archangel, not a Seraph. He was created while Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, and Gabriel still played alone in the Garden, before God released them into other planes. Metatron was created to serve a purpose; a scribe, to record what lay beyond. In that he was closer to a Seraph, because he was purely utility, he lacked a voice of his own. A pen, not a hammer.

Yet Gabriel is not as naive as Raphael; all conscious beings can develop Free Will. They can think, and they can disagree, and they can fight. He won’t discount Metatron as a threat.

“Lost for words?” Metatron says. “That’s a first for you, isn’t it, Gabriel?”

“Alright, Judge Doom,” The Archangel rolls his shoulders. It’s easy to shift subtly to put the tablet more squarely behind him. “You’ve got bigger balls than I remember, I’ll give you that. Either you ditched Heaven — which, not to brag, hasn’t cool since I did it — or you’re Raphael’s bitch but you decided to try taking me on mano y mano.” Metatron’s smug expression slips into a frown. Flexing his wings, still out of sight, Gabriel smirks. “Like I said, big balls.”

Metatron pushes off the wall, sauntering closer, though not in a straight line. He circles, non threatening. Gabriel maintains his position between him and the tablet at all times.

“I keep tabs on my tablets. When I realized someone was sneaking off with them, I assumed it was one of those factions up in Heaven, either Raphael or Anael’s. But _you…_ you’re a wild card. What’re _you_ going to do with the angel tablet?” He grins, a baring of uneven teeth. He _really_ could’ve picked a nicer vessel. “Had you even thought that far ahead? Or are you winging it?”

Gabriel holds up three fingers, “Number one, that pun is, wow, embarrassing for both of us to have witnessed.” Puts down the ring finger. “Number two, thanks for confirming that this is the angel tablet. And, uh, number three,” The pointer goes down, “I only saw it for a blip a millennia ago, but I know there’s ways written here to lock Heaven down. That’s what I gotta do, to stop the bleeding between planes.”

Metatron taps his chin thoughtfully. “I’d like very much to believe you, Gabriel. The problem is… I don’t.”

Gabriel spreads his arms. “Metty, baby, what do I gotta do for your love?”

Metatron scowls. Ugh, maybe he’s not into the playful homoerotic banter. It’s been so long since he met a tight ass who wasn’t into free love.

“You Archangels,” Metatron spits, “Are all the same. So self-righteous, so _perfect_ , you can’t help treading on the little guy.” Gabriel wonders what he may have done to Metatron. For the most part, he barely recalls interacting with him. Oh… maybe that’s it. Baby never got a hug when he cried. “You’ll kill Raphael, and assume command of Heaven, until pretty soon Apocalypse is gonna start sounding good to you too.”

Gabriel tilts his face to the ceiling. “Why does everyone assume I’m gonna kill Ralph? I don’t want to kill anyone, just keep them contained. It’s what I did to Mike and Lucy, I only realized it’s gotta be the whole Host, or else we’ll keep having this issue year after year.”

“Oh really,” Metatron grins, like Gabriel gave him everything he wanted, “If that’s so, I’m sorry to tell you it’s impossible.” No, it’s a lie. Gabriel glares. “What you want to do, shut the pearly gates, there’re a few ingredients you’ll need. The first few are child’s play, the last one’s the kicker.” He’s practically salivating, he’s so ecstatic. “Grace, an angel’s grace.” Gabriel stumbles back, the stone bumping into his calves. “Yes, Gabriel, we’ll see how long your pacifist vision lasts when you have to kill one of your siblings to achieve it.”

Okay. Gabriel flexes his wings where they’re poised just beyond the physical plane. Okay, that’s a problem. Not a now problem, but a problem nonetheless.

For now...

“Thanks Metatron, you’ve been a big help.”

Gabriel grabs hold of the tablet, and it _burns_.

The shock is so, to quote Sean Connery, _shocking_ that Gabriel forgets the quick getaway he’d prepared. His wings flutter aimlessly.

“You feel that?” Metatron questions with glee. “Every angel on Earth felt it. The Word calls to us. They’ll be after you, no matter where you run.”

“Good thing I don’t have to run,” Gabriel mutters, and he’s off.

 

* * *

 

“Ruby,” says Jo as she drops to her knees beside the bed, “Wake up.” She grabs hold of one limp shoulder and shakes. Under the thick black curtain of hair, there’s a groan. “C’mon, I need you to wake up, I need you to tell me what happened.” A sharp intake of breath, and Ruby’s sitting up in the cot.

Squinting, she mumbles, “Jo?”

“Yeah, it’s me, I’m here. What’re you doing in this shithole, Ruby, what happened to you? Was it the Roadhouse? Did you get out?”

“Jo, you don’t know,” Ruby slurs, and dammit, they must’ve given her something, “‘Cause you’re always ‘saving the world’” This is accompanied by sloppy air quotes, “But I’m fucked in the head. See, ‘cause I have what’s called a ‘delusion’” She whacks Jo with her arm this time, “That I got attacked by a ghoul and then possessed by Satan.”

Jo’s heart sinks. “Ruby, you know that’s real, you know that really happened.”

“Yeah,” She giggles, “And I have a little sister who got raised by my real mom to kill monsters. But I hardly ever see her. I barely know her. All I know is she saved my life.” Ruby sweeps her arms out over her head. “Whoop-di-fuckin-do! I serve weak beer to rednecks who put their sawed off shotguns on the tables. I can’t think of a time when I was actually doing anything important, not like Jo. No wonder our mom liked her best.”

“Stop it.”

Ruby leans in to whisper, “The best part, the thing nobody knows...” She giggles again. “They think they trapped Lucifer in Hell, but they’re wrong.” Jo can’t breathe. Ruby taps her forehead. “She’s in here. I used to be at the back of her mind, all we’ve done is switch places. She started coming out. She wears my face but no one can see her but me.” Ruby flops back onto the bed and smiles blissfully up at the ceiling. “Lucifer’s driving me crazy and soon she’ll have my body again and she’ll be able to do whatever she wants.”

“Ruby, listen to me,” Jo speaks urgently, “Lucifer is still trapped. What you’re seeing, fuck, I’m so sorry, it’s in your head.” Ruby’s face turns and she watches Jo impassively. “You’re right about me, and I’m so fucking sorry. If I hadn’t been so obsessed with hunting, if I’d tried to spend more time with you, we could’ve seen it. You were right to put yourself here. You’ve been sick and getting worse and you hid it and _God I’m such an idiot_.” Jo furiously wipes the tears from her cheeks. “You’re priority number one for me, okay? From now on. You’re my blood, and I’m gonna fix this. I’ll fix you. And then we can teach you how to hunt, or we can get you settled in that apple pie kinda life, whatever you want . You’re the big sister that I never knew I needed, and I do need you, Ruby, _I love you_.”

Ruby reaches up. Pokes her nose. “Boop.”

 

* * *

 

They drive like a bat outta hell.

With a mostly full gas tank, Baby makes it a solid 250 miles nonstop. They end up in the ass-end of Utah of all places. Dean rolls the Impala into a motel parking lot, Sam slaps cash onto the check-in counter, and they hole up in the room without saying a word to each other.

Dean takes first shower, not because he needs it, but because there’s nothing else he can think to do. Normally hot water makes him feel more like a person. Not this time. He comes out with the scratchy towel knotted around his waist, and sees Sam staring intently at the boxy tv on the dresser.

All his brother has to say is, “Dean,” to get him to sit down and focus on the screen. It’s some news channel, the ticker tape at the bottom reads, “Domestic Terrorist Plot Uncovered”.

“—Target seems to have been a series of elected officials and religious icons,” The Megyn Kelly clone drones on. “While the source of the information is unclear, the FBI is convinced the identities of the perpetrators is accurate.” They put up three pictures. Dean and Sam’s mugshots from that one vengeful spirit case in Arkansas, and one blurry shot of Jo that looks like surveillance footage. “Real names, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, and Jo Harvelle. Aliases include Smith, Wesson, and various band members. Reported to be armed and extremely dangerous. If anyone has information on these suspects, please call the FBI hotline below.”

Sam turns it off.

“Fucking angels,” Dean sighs, rubbing his temples. “Of course they convinced some Feds to let them in. Now we’re public enemy number one, in Heaven, Earth, and Hell.”

“Jo’s alive,” Is what Sam says, and Dean squints at him. His brother gestures to the black screen. “Angels wouldn’t have put her picture in there if she wasn’t. Raphael hasn’t gotten to her yet.”

Okay, Dean nods, that’s logical _and_ optimistic. Only… “How’re we supposed to go about finding her? We’re scattered, and if she’s seen that broadcast, she’ll be going to ground, just like we oughta.”

Sam’s about to retort, but clicks his jaw shut. Dean hears it too. There’s someone at the door. The motel proprietor, maybe, checking that they haven’t left before he goes to call the hotline. They wait in silence until the shuffling footsteps retreat. Then they’re up, Dean yanking his clothes on mechanically while Sam removes any sign they were ever there.

They’re out of the room like ghosts and cruising to the nearest deserted gas station. Sam purposely combs his hair to hide his profile before he steps out to the pump. Dean’s gonna have to wait awhile before he can tease the hippie for not getting a haircut; it’s the biggest difference between him and the six-year-old mugshot, and it might be enough to save their asses.

 

* * *

 

The waiting is interminable so Anna ventures inside. She finds Jo kicking a wall. There’s no discernible reason why she chose the wall, except that it is perhaps the most suited to damage her.

Anna lays her hand on the hunter’s shoulder, bracing herself for any violent reaction, but Jo isn’t startled. The fight seeps out of her. Weary, she presses her forehead forward to rest on the wall, which holds no grudge.

“Doc said she checked herself in right before we called you,” Jo reports. The phrase ‘we called you’ is an interesting one. The ambush that set all these events in motion was less than 12 hours ago, and yet so much has changed. “Any later she would’ve been at the Roadhouse.” Anna doesn’t comment on the luck involved.

“How is she?”

Jo groans, her forehead rolling against the rough texture. “All this time… Lucifer really fucked with her head.” She moves enough to peer over her shoulder at Anna. “Docs can’t fix this, can they?”

The words hurt to say aloud, but she must. “Her soul’s been damaged. I can feel it from here. I didn’t sense it in Hell. It’s gotten worse.” She licks her lips in a human display of unease. It’s a surprise to taste Jo there, though that wasn’t long ago at all. “You’re right. Lucifer was a parasite, or a poison. The cure will have to be supernatural in nature.”

At last Jo pushes up and turns to converse with her face-to-face. “There is a cure though? Can you…?” The request is unvoiced, which makes it easier to turn down.

“I can’t restore what’s been lost. I… I could take the parasite, but… then I would be the one damaged, and Ruby—”

“No,” Jo breaks in, filling Anna with relief, “No, that’s crazy. I’m not trading one soul for another, never again.”

“There are creatures that consume soul energy, and I know that witchcraft can be used as a counter measure. It would require a witch to perform, an angel’s grace isn’t compatible with that kind of magic.”

“Great, getting in bed with witches, that’s nearly as bad as demons.”

“I’m telling you the options, I’m not saying they’re good ones.”

“I, fuck, I know. Thanks.” Jo hangs her head. “I don’t like leaving her here, but what am I supposed to do?”

It comes to her easily, the way tactical planning and stratagems do. “I’ll stay with Ruby.” Jo stares at her with wide skeptical eyes. “I’ll use what grace I can to slow the parasite’s progress, even if I can’t eradicate it. It’s the best solution.”

Jo’s face is flooded with emotion at this display of logic. “So I end up having to leave Ruby and you too, huh? How is that the best solution?”

Anna blinks uncomprehendingly. It… It simply is. She’s run down the options and determined how her value is best spent. “I can protect her, keep her safe, what is the problem?”

“Why can’t you stay?” She demands, thrusting out with both fists. Anna moves with the shove; she refuses to be another wall for Jo to damage herself with. “Why won’t you ever just stay? You’ll never just _be_ with me!”

This is why Jo has consistently baffled her. “Raphael—

“Fuck, always, with the bigger fucking picture—”

“Raphael won!” Anna roars, shocking them both into silence. The angel listens to her lungs heave. The rage had creeped up on her. Irrational… no, she examines herself, not irrational at all. She can explain this, make Jo understand. “I betrayed my brothers on her orders. There is no more resistance. By corrupting me, Raphael has taken Heaven in a single move. All of my efforts meant nothing.”

Jo moves with her hand out in supplication. “Anna—”

She ducks the gentle gesture; she prefers the hits. “I need to feel good, Jo. There’s no Heaven for me. When Raphael realizes I’m no longer under her control, I’ll need to defend myself. I believe I can protect Ruby and myself, and—” She looks down at her fists. They tremble. “I don’t think I can protect you, Jo.” The hunter is observant. She doesn’t try reaching out again.

“Are… Anna, what if this what Raphael wants?”

Intriguing. Disturbing. She considers it. “What if I’m a sleeper agent? It would be clever, training me to attack you, apparently breaking free to regain your trust, only to capture Ruby, the real target to manipulate you.” Jo appears stricken. Ann answers gently, “I don’t think it’s likely. I recall my programming. I was created to kill you, Jo, and the humans Naomi believed would protect you. They didn’t consider Ruby a threat, and so I was never made to kill her.” Discomfort, though internal, makes her shuffle her feet as though external. “She’s currently safer around me than you are.”

“The,” Jo fumbles with her finger around her head, “The reprogramming thing. Is there any chance other angels snapped out of it like you?”

A laugh bubbles out of Anna’s throat. She’s emoting all over the place now. “None of the others were more devoted to you than God, so no, I doubt they can break out of it like I did.”

Jo doesn’t speak. After a pause, she leans forward, but Anna jerks away. She registers hurt on the human’s face. Ah, that may have been meant as a kiss. Her mind is stretched so thin, now that the elation of freedom has passed, she can’t trust herself to give in to Jo’s physicality. The impulse to hurt her still lingers.

“You’re sure about this?” Jo asks. It takes Anna a moment to get her meaning.

“Yes. You should go. Find some magic that can remove Lucifer’s parasite. I promise you, Ruby and I will be safe waiting for you to succeed.”

“Okay,” Jo says, quick like her heartbeat, “Okay, okay. Anna, I swear to your Dad, after I get this figured out, you and I are gonna have a long talk.”

While that sounds nice, Anna tilts her head and says, “I believe you’re referencing God, but much like angels, God has no gender.”

Jo chokes. “Shit, Anna, you make it so hard not to kiss you sometimes, you know that?” Although posed as a question, Jo stomps off before Anna can answer.

To herself, she whispers, “I didn’t, but thank you.”

Then she proceeds to find herself employment as a nurse.

 

* * *

 

When Claire Novak wakes up, she’s bundled into a blue polka dot gown, wrapped in white linen, and the tv across the room is playing _Dr. Sexy_ reruns. There’s an IV in her wrist and her head is killing her.

And her parents are dead.

She’s mid-cry and longing for her family when the impossible happens.

“Cas!” Claire sits up. Her uncle sways on the spot beside her hospital bed looking as bad as she feels. His eyes are haunted like hers must be. He lurches forward, bracing his palms on the lumpy bedding. “Cas, what happened to you? The demons — I remember them calling you — I remember…”

“Claire, there isn’t time,” Cas rasps urgently. He presses two fingers to her forehead and… she doesn’t hurt anymore, not physically. It’s unreal, it’s... it’s not _possible_. Neither are demons, she supposes, black smoke crawling down your throat and controlling you like a dummy. “We have to leave, I’m being hunted, I…” He squints, looking tragic. He’s pretty much hyperventilating while he speaks. “You don’t have to — it won’t be safe — Claire, I’m so—”

Claire throws off the sheets covering her and starts scrambling for her clothes. “Uncle Cas, you’re the only family I’ve got now. If you leave me here, I’m going to chase you down and we’ll see who’s _fucking_ sorry.” Cas spares the energy to give her a stern look for cussing. She’s 15 and she’s an orphan. She’s _fucking_ allowed to say whatever she wants.

“Who’s chasing us?” Claire asks as she dresses, as Cas politely turns his back. The whole situation feels absurd.

“Everyone. I killed three angels to return to Earth. Once they’re discovered, all of Heaven and Hell will be after me.”

Claire pauses with her shirt half on. “Maybe take it from the top, Cas?”

Cas must be really disoriented because she can hear his brain reboot like Windows 98. “Angels are real. Sort of. They’re not the benevolent servants described in the bible. They’re ruthless authoritarian automatons. I used to be one,” There’s an obvious deliberation of words, “In a past life. They gave me back my old powers to try and take control of me, but I fought and killed the three that held me down. To survive, we need to evade them, despite the fact that they’re very nearly omnipotent.”

“Okay,” Claire says, even if inside she’s freaking out. It’s definitely time to adjust her definition of _possible_. She taps Cas on the shoulder to signify that she’s dressed. It’s the same clothes she wore when the black smoke took hold of her. She needs a jacket, but it feels like going home to pack a bag would be a bad move. “So that’s why we’re going, now where are going to?”

Cas faces her, meeting her gaze. “Dean,” Is the first word out of his mouth, and she can see it surprises him. It doesn’t surprise her though. She never forgot his stilted confession…

_Dean… we were together during a difficult time. Maybe that’s why in spite of how short we knew each other — really, it was only snatches of time within 18 months — it felt so much longer. I understood him on a deep level, and shared myself in a way I haven’t with anyone else. Not — Well, yes, okay, you’re old enough to hear the word sex. But that’s not what I mean. I… Dean meant everything to me, and it felt as though there was a chance… I could mean as much to him._

“Dean and his brother and Jo,” Cas covers quickly. “They’re hunters, they know about the angels, they can help us.”

Claire nods. It’s clear Cas is still dizzy or something from whatever the angels did to him. Even if this wasn't brand new information, only half of what he’s saying makes sense. He turns his head too fast and she grabs his arm to prop him up. Good thing she’s here to help him, because she can’t imagine what her uncle would be like without her.

“How can we find them?”

He processes her question slowly. “I can locate Dean’s soul and take us to it in an instant.”

“Then come on, Cas,” Claire gives him a gentle shake, “Let’s go.”

There’s a strange sound, like a creak, or something unfurling. Then, in a rustle of… feathers? Claire blinks and she’s crammed into the back of a car. Her hand’s still wrapped around Cas’ elbow, who sits in the seat next to her. Her stomach lurches, and then settles, as she realizes the car just swerved.

“Whoa!” A gravelly male voice calls out. “Cas?” Claire finally focuses on the front seat. There’s two men, only one she recognizes. Dean flicks his wide eyed gaze at them in the rear view. “Claire?”

“Something’s wrong with Cas,” She tells them before they can waste time with questions. “He’s got magic powers, and almost got killed, and angels and demons are after us. Please tell me you guys know what to do, ‘cause otherwise we’re boned.”

 

* * *

 

It takes Jo a few hours to come across her wanted posters, the 2012 equivalent anyway.

“Fuck,” She mutters, staring at her face, young and perky, on the deli’s mounted tv. The timing couldn’t be worse, because she’s at the counter, trying to buy her slim jims and mountain dew — hunter fuel — and at her curse the nice Pakistani man follows her gaze to the incriminating evidence. His hand moves under the counter. Her pistol’s up and in his face before he can press the panic button, at least that’s the hope. “Sorry pal, not tonight.”

The cash in her hand gets tossed on the counter, but she does hotwire a car in the parking lot, so morally she ends up breaking even.

Okay, Jo thinks as she taps the Toyota's wheel, time to think practically. She can’t save Ruby if she gets pinched. Cellphone goes out the window, can’t risk the FBI tracking the GPS. She’s got four weapons on her person, and a wallet with a now useless ID, and close to $60 in cash. Time to work, bitch.

She stops in a Goodwill for a hoodie and sunglasses. The thrift store doesn’t have scissors or a restroom so. Coming out full Unabomber, Jo hits up a McDonalds. Three of her weapons are knives, and she chooses the smallest, single-edged blade. It’s not cutting so much as weed-wacking, but when Jo looks in the mirror, her hair is the shortest it’s ever been. She looks like Angelina Jolie in _Hackers_ , if Jolie hadn’t used professional stylists.

Jo studies her face. The picture they've been playing is from when she was 22. Ellen was deep on a hunt, missing, in trouble, but alive. Sam and Dean caught up with her and insisted on helping her track Ellen down; they were also jonesing for Yellow-Eyes’ blood. They hunted together, different monster every week it felt like, and they made progress unraveling the demon’s plans. It wasn’t perfect, some days Jo wanted so badly to ditch them. But they were family.

They thought they’d seen it all. They were so fucking stupid and young.

This isn’t that girl’s face. Jo has lines, wrinkles really, webbing from the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. The bridge of her nose is slightly crooked from a few hits that never got healed. Her cheekbones poke out sharply, over the once full and round cheeks. Her skin feels thin, pale, unhealthy in new ways, rather than acne. Looking at this face, you can see forty years in Hell, you can see death, you can see the bone-deep weariness she carries like an albatross.

Really, she thinks, it was the long blonde hair tying her altogether. Without it she’s untethered from that past specter. Maybe once she can get to a real barber or salon, the short cut could be her new thing.

Jo leaves McDonalds as a 27 year old and walking like a soldier. No need for the sunglasses, nobody looks at her twice.

 

* * *

 

There’s nowhere for them to go. Rufus’ cabin is where Raphael last saw them, so it’s no good as a hideout. A quick google search had confirmed the Roadhouse burned down, with two casualties. The Winchester name is splashed on every 24 hour news network, and worse, _their faces_. There aren’t hunters they can trust not to blame them for it all when they’d be right to.

It’s arbitrary why they end up in Kansas. Dean pretty much pulls up into an extended stay motel lot and looks at Sam. Claire and Cas have to go and buy the two doubles. They have a connecting door, part and parcel with the increased cost, which they leave open; security matters more than privacy. Sam and Dean put up all the warding they could think of, and some Cas pulls out of his deep angel knowledge.

They’re safe, but it feels an awful lot like being trapped.

The burden of venturing out for things like food falls on Claire; she’s the only one who can’t be recognized by angels or law enforcement. Unfortunately, she can’t drive, and their neck of the woods ain’t exactly walkable. So, Dean ends up chauffeuring her places and staying in the car while she fetches the supplies. Sam and Cas get a lot of alone time while they’re out.

Which means Dean gets hit on two fronts.

After Claire gets through her ‘monsters are real’ questions, she gets personal. “You haven’t talked to Cas much. Are you avoiding him?”

“I’m not,” He answers, “Just not very talkative.” Claire snorts, which. Yeah. Dean’s rambled to her about everything from how to do a clean beheading to why the 80s had such amazing music. He switches tactics as he turns them around a street corner. “Does Cas need to talk to me ‘bout something?”

They’ve talked. They’ve discussed the next move, whether there is one. They’ve shared knowledge and plans.

“You two are weird,” Is what Claire huffs, looking like a real teenager. The heavy eyeliner she insists on buying helps. “I can’t tell if you hate each other or you’re in love, or both.”

Dean shoots her a smirk. “If you find out, clue me in.”

The second assault comes from Sammy, one night after they’ve closed the partition so Claire can change.

“It must be strange,” He murmurs in that oh-so-understanding tone he uses on victims’ families, “Having him around as an angel again.” Cas’ grace hasn’t come up much, other than the report he first provided: _it isn’t mine, it’ll fade in time_. Still, it gave him the same effects it did the first time he got his own back, so Dean doesn’t know what to do with that.

“This whole sitch is strange, Sam,” Dean retorts, punching the pillow into a comfortable shape. “Can’t really focus on one part over another.”

Sam’s quiet for a blissful moment. “I’d have no problem switching rooms, me and Claire could give you space—”

“No, fuck no,” Dean grunts, “Space is the last thing we need.”

“Dean,” Sam says, and God, no one else can go from understanding to pushy quite like Sam, “You have a shot here. Don’t waste it holding grudges or—”

“Grudges?” Dean questions, forgetting his resolution not to talk about this. “What, over Meg? She’s dead, and even if she weren’t, that’s not my problem.”

Sam leaps on the opening. “Then what is?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He thinks of Jo, one of their talks in Baby. He thinks of Lynyrd Skynyrd.

“You want to go back to Stanford, don’t you?” Sam startles from the other bed.

“I… I mean, I liked Stanford.” Sam lets out the confession slowly. Probably figures Dean’s asking tit for tat, and if he answers honestly, Dean will have to match. “I want to believe I can go back to school and have a life in addition to hunting. Maybe I won’t be a lawyer, but there are degrees that could help with hunting. Law enforcement, maybe, like Bobby’s old pal Jodie?” He lets out a rueful chuckle. “I’d need to not be a wanted criminal though. So… yeah… I want it, but it’s not in the cards right now.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, very, very, quietly, “And wouldn’t it suck to get an acceptance letter from Stanford right now? To even bring it up to them, when it’s _not in the cards_.”

“Oh,” Says Sam.

“Yeah. _Oh_.”

 

* * *

 

There aren’t many hunters she can involve in this. She knows one, and better than that, she knows where he lives. Warsaw, Missouri it is.

“Golly,” The scrawny looking hunter steps out from his houseboat as Jo slams the stolen door shut, “There’s a sight I wasn’t expecting. Harvelle, who’ve you pissed off now?”

“You got no idea,” She quips. “You gonna help me or not, Garth?”

“That depends, what do ya need?”

They talk on the gently rocking houseboat. Garth agrees to spread the word that the Winchesters and Harvelle are innocent. If he manages to locate Sam and Dean, he’ll fill them in on Jo’s sitch. She’s not hopeful; they’re skilled, they can hide. He promises to look into soul repair witchcraft. As for her more immediate needs, that’s where he falls short.

“Don’t have the equipment,” Garth shrugs. “I can print and laminate new IDs, fine, but that’s about it. Credit card fraud ain’t my jam and I’m fresh out of burner phones.”

“I gotta believe the government’s tracking me,” Jo says, “There’s no way I can track down my brothers until I know I’m free and clear.”

Garth gets this big goofy grin. “I’ve got just the lady for the job.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Not a hunter, we met on the darknet, swapping hacking tutorials. Totally underground, anti-government, but I know how to find her. She’s got a weakness for these, um, Live Action Role Playing games.” Jo squints, and Garth rushes to reassure her. “She’s a sweetheart, and smart as a whip. Plus, you’ll like her, I mean, _definitely_ like her.”

There’s a vibe in his voice that makes Jo demand, “Why?”

“Well, she’s a, you know…” He holds up two fingers, then hastily thinks better of it.

“A lesbian? Is that what you’re trying to say?” Garth coughs, then nods, blushing. “All capital-L lezzies are automatically best buds, that it? Or what, you think we’ll go from handshake to scissoring?” She rolls her eyes in disgust. “Fuck men, seriously, you all suck.”

 

* * *

 

When a full week passes and Gabriel doesn’t come back, Kevin and Linda pack their things. It doesn’t matter that Kevin didn’t _see_ what happened. They know it can’t be good. Gabriel has ways to find them anyway.

Linda takes to life on the lam with worrying ease.

“I’m practical,” She replies when he asks why she has $400 cash squirreled away in their house. “I plan ahead,” She says when he is weirded out by her packing a WWII style gas mask. “Really, Kevin, I lived a long life before you were born,” She huffs when he’s white faced as she tucks steak knives into her belt, “I know how to handle knives.”

His mom might be a sleeper agent. That doesn’t matter now. It’s very helpful. She doesn’t even kvetch about him missing school; they’re close enough to summer holidays and he’s got perfect attendance.

Somehow it’s stealing that gets Linda huffy.

“I don’t want to encourage this,” She says as they jack the SUV open, “This is wrong under any other circumstances.”

He tosses the SUV’s CD collection out of the glove box. “I get it, mom.”

“People go to jail for shoplifting, Kevin, and you don’t go to Harvard when you’re fresh out of Juvie.”

“Oh my God.”

They go as far from home as they can. Linda suggests covering their tracks by adopting new lives, as bizarre and removed from themselves as possible. Kevin argues they need to lie low. If any angels catch sight of him, they’ll recognize him as Holy, and the jig is up.

Thankfully the SUV is spacious and there’s plenty of room to sleep in it. It almost feels like how he imagines camping.

“What can we do?” Linda whispers one night. “Get the demon tablet? Find new ones?”

Kevin shudders at the memory of the demon tablet. It hadn’t boded well. And… he’d had such a strong feeling about the last one, but that’s where Gabriel disappeared.

“It’ll come to me,” He says, and hears his mother snort. “Sorry.”

“Prophet jokes. Who’d’ve thought?”

 

* * *

 

“You have to understand, this is kinda a big deal for me,” Charlie mumbles, her lips still pressed to the last rungs of Jo’s ribcage. They stink, sweaty and sweet. The tent’s cooling rapidly, and Jo pulled the blanket over them both, letting Charlie sleepily burrow down.

“If you say you’re a virgin,” Jo threatens with a laugh.

“God, no,” Charlie giggles, giving Jo’s thigh an absent stroke. “I mean because I’ve read the, um, Carver Edlund books.” It’s a mood killer for Jo, and Charlie continues petting her as if she’s aware of that. “You’re, like, a lesbian icon for some nerd girls. It’s like if Hermione appeared and professed undying love to me. I can’t count the number of times I fantasized about stripping off your cowgirl boots and denim shorts and just going to town.”

“Where did Chuck get that from?” Jo groans. “I wear the same Goodwill hoodies and flannel that Sam and Dean do, and I haven’t worn cowgirl boots since I was 9. I’m a psycho who plays with knives, not a pinup.”

“Shh,” Charlie peeks up and puts one finger to her lips, “Don’t ruin the illusion.” That gets her a swat to the back of the head. “Ow, you’re so cruel. So much worse in person.”

“You better believe it.” It’s a smooth move from the swat to lacing her fingers in Charlie’s long red hair. It’s calming, watching the flaming strands tumble over themselves with each stroke.

Charlie is looking her straight in the eye next time Jo glances down. “Are we gonna talk about the redheaded elephant in the room?”

“Whaddya mean?” But she’s got a bad feeling she knows.

“The books were never explicit about it, but there was always this idea that… well now that I know you’re real, and presumably angels are real… what’s up with you and Anna?” Jo lets her frown speak for her, keeps focusing on Charlie’s hair. So, _so_ red.  “‘Cause I gotta say, if you have a type, I’m totally 100% cool with that. If this is a surrogate situation, I’m less flattered. I’m not too proud to say I’ve got an ego, and I like to be liked for me, you know?”

“I wasn’t thinking about Anna when we were fucking,” Jo tells her softly, “And that’s one reason why I like you.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, tilting her head so Jo takes its weight, “ _Oh_ , it’s like that.”

In the vacuum of her words, Jo’s voice rushes in. “Anna and I are so fucked up. I think, I mean, she’s practically said, angels don’t have sexual orientation, I dunno if they have sexual feelings at all really… but they form bonds, and we…” Jo thumps her other hand on the bed, “Every time I think we can trust each other, something blows it all to Hell.”

“Where is she now? Heaven?” Charlie shakes her head ruefully. “Shit, that sounds weird out loud.”

“No, she’s on Earth,” Jo explains haltingly, “She… she messed up big time. My sister, Ruby — is she in the books?”

“Sorta. Briefly.”

“Ruby’s got a problem, she’s, well, she’s sick. I need to find a witch or something that can cure her. While I look, Anna decided,” The bitter twang of that word is all wrong, so she rephrases, “She volunteered to stay with Ruby and protect her. It’s logical, and nice of her, but…”

Charlie ventures in her hesitation. “It still feels like she’s leaving you?” Yeah, Jo says with her silence. Shifting slightly over Jo’s body, she can feel it when Charlie mentally switches tracks. “Well, listen, I know you’ll come across the good witch Glenda soon.” Jo accepts the joke and vote of confidence with a smile. When’s the last time she smiled so much? Damn, she really needed this. “Heck, if you meet Dorothy, pass her along to me. I bet she’s hot too, and I’ve got a good track record with fictional women.”

“I know of one,” Jo replies, “But if you’ve got Buffy hiding in your closet—”

“Oh God, because you said that, I’ll be having threesome dreams for weeks now.”

Jo laughs, setting Charlie off, until they’re curled up and giggling into each other’s necks. “You’re fun,” Jo whispers, “I don’t wanna leave you. But you know my life. Most people I know end up dead at least once.”

Charlie shrugs. “I’m a wanted criminal,” She declares, easy as anything, “I change my name at least once a year. It’ll be nice to have a friend, especially a sexy gay friend, to call up every now and then. You ever need to talk, or get some forged legal documents, or siphon more money from Super PACs, you have my secure number.”

Jo thinks of the clean burner phone Charlie had packed for her in addition to the new IDs and credit cards. “Same, only if you have a monster problem. I’ve got you covered, Little Red.”

 

* * *

 

“This is stupid,” Claire pipes up during the second week of their confinement. They’ve been huddled around the TV in his and Claire’s room. The news coverage grows more pessimistic everyday: fanatic cults grow in numbers, mysterious deaths of political linchpins throw regions into chaos, mass-shootings by lone gunmen, and tropical storms late in the season.

Cas has no doubt Raphael has a hand in all of it. It feels like the Apocalypse all over again.

“You have to have some sort of plan,” Claire continues to rant. “We can’t stay in this motel forever. For one thing those credit cards are gonna get flagged for sure! How do we stop them?”

Cas has done nothing but think for all two weeks. The inactivity has given him a chance to acclimate to the foreign grace. He’s confident he could do all the things he recalls from his time as an angel. On his hip is the tattoo he got shortly after returning to Pontiac, which shields him from angelic sight. That doesn’t mean an angel wouldn’t recognize him if they came face to face.

The Winchesters are without allies or means to contact Jo. Cas can’t find Jo because of the sigils he long ago carved onto her rib cage. They have no angelic allies they can trust, as any one of them may have been compromised by Naomi, while she lived.

They’ve exhausted this discussion and reach the same conclusion every time. There is no safe option. Cas ignores this dilemma and forges ahead.

“To defeat Raphael at this point,” Cas muses aloud, “We would require power capable of destroying a God, rather than an Archangel. Or… to separate Raphael from the source of her power. Either way, it comes down to one thing.”

“Souls,” Sam provides the answer, “The powerhouse of the magical world.”

“How can we control souls?” asks Dean.

Cas heaves a sigh. “That’s the crucial question I keep coming up against.”

“Death,” Sam exclaims. “Death, Death is the one who controls where souls go when they pass on, right? So Death has to be capable of moving souls. Death could strip Raphael of her power.”

“Death also said we can’t call them unless we want to be permanently pushing daisies,” Dean reminds his brother. “You told me that, remember? ‘Next time you see me will be the last’ kinda deal?” Sam visibly wilts.

“It’s a good idea,” Cas says in his defence, “But you’re also right, Dean, I don’t believe Death will be so altruistic as to help us without a heavy price. However, there could be other deities that might.”

“God?” Claire ventures.

Dean snorts, and Cas gently tells her, “No, not the God you’re thinking of.”

“Gabriel,” Sam says slowly, “Was a God. He talked about other pagan deities, right? And we’ve come across some on Earth, but they’re always struggling without devotees.”

Cas adds, “Gabriel also said those deities were leaving Earth during the Apocalypse. It may be possible to attempt a summoning to contact them.”

“Okay!” Claire claps. “That’s something! That’s a plan!”

“We need summoning ingredients,” Dean grumbles, rubbing his neck, “And that means witches.”

“Why did it have to be witches?” Sam remarks, which earns him a swat to the head from his brother.

 

* * *

 

He flickers through dimensions like a ghost. Infinite worlds, infinite playgrounds, and his wings never tire. Here and there he feels pursuers on his tail. They’re woefully slow. Unless Raphael himself decides to come after him, Gabriel can keep this up indefinitely.

It gives him plenty of time to think.

When Gabriel was but a fledgling waveform of light, he learned that he possessed something called Free Will. This was treated as a special gift, from Light, his Father, to him and his siblings. He’s learned later that this is bullcrap; everyone he’s come across, from insect to deity, has an innate capacity for Free Will. The seraphs, the lower tiers of the Host, what they received was the suppression of Free Will. Once Gabriel wondered whether that was the true gift. He knows better now.

Mentally Gabriel backtracks. In that beautiful Garden, when he and his siblings were content, Gabriel made the choice that he would feel. It came easily once he let it. He loved his Father, his siblings, every creature he came upon. When it all fell apart, his heart broke, and every other feeling crept in the cracks.

Free Will let him feel, let him run, let him defy all those he once loved.

Gabriel knows how fucked his Father’s plan was. Seraphs were soldiers acting like an occupying force on Earth, and they had no idea why. Perhaps in the beginning the goal was admirable; keep the monkeys alive. Well, Humans had Free Will now. They didn’t need to be coddled, and there was certainly no fucking point to obliterating them.

But Gabriel keeps butting up against one thing.

He won’t kill his siblings. Not even Raphael. That’s the entire point of trapping them.

And yet…

He doesn’t want to die.

So he’s trapped in limbo between infinite dimensions waiting for a better idea that never comes.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like this,” Dean says. No one’s listened to him the first ten times, but he can’t stop saying it.

“Nobody does,” Sam replies. He stopped sounding sympathetic an hour ago.

“What if something happens?”

The whole situation would be better if they had cell phones. Obviously they’d all ditched theirs weeks ago, around the time Dean had switched out the Impala’s license plate. The new combination glints up at him from the rear bumper. He and Sam had loaded everything in her trunk, but it feels woefully bare: no angel blades, single shotgun, bag of rock salt, the demon killing knife, and a couple sundries. They’re packing a handgun each and smaller knives, ‘cause they’re naked without.

His brainy brother misses the point. “We can pray to Cas, there’s no guarantee the other angels won’t hear it, but he would.”

“No, dipshit, I mean to them?”

“Sam.” Dean’s life sucks, so obviously Cas returned from checking out just in time to hear Dean whining. He slaps his palm on Baby’s trunk, lightly, like a love tap. Cas says, “Could you give Dean and I a moment?”

Sam, the traitor, throws his head back. “Yes, for the love of God, _yes_.” He catches Claire and marches her off in the direction of the ice machine. The gaping space between Dean and Cas hasn’t been this noticeable since they started their solitary confinement.

“The plan is solid,” Cas says, like _logic_ is what’s getting Dean down. “You and Sam have hunted witches before. Claire and I will be of more use researching the proper deities to track down.” There’s this gleam in his eye, like Sam gets when he’s eager to hit up a library, “I’m suspecting the Hindu deity Kali, as Hinduism is extremely popular, and I believe Gabriel was fond of—”

“Cas,” says Dean, “I don’t want to leave you.”

Startled, it takes Cas a few tries, like turning over an engine, to respond. “Are… are you...  sure we don’t need… space?”

“Shit, did you hear me and Sam talking?”

“Not intentionally!” Cas stumbles over his words. “With this grace, my hearing is vastly improved, all my senses really. I tried to block you out.”

“I… the thing with space… I meant... ” That’s too hard. He switches tracks. “I’m going to be worrying about you nonstop. You getting nabbed again is like my worst nightmare.” The air rushes out of his nose in an angry huff. “I just wish I could keep you safe, man.”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas replies, “You can’t.” _Ouch_. He must not have kept that reaction in, because Cas is moving forward and touching him tenderly, on his shoulders where they can pretend it’s platonic. “I admire your protective instincts, truly. But you can’t keep everyone around you safe. I make my own choices, and that means I can’t sit idly by any longer. I want to stop Raphael, as does Sam, as does Jo.”

Dean gulps. They’ve been careful to talk around Jo. There’s no way to find her, so all they’ve got is the faint hope that she’s alive. It’s one of those deal with tomorrow things.

Half of Dean’s voice is trapped in his chest, so he mumbles, “I know, Cas. You’re too good to waste lying around.” Even if he’d be lying around in a room covered in wall-to-wall warding. They’d scrubbed it all off that morning before check out. Every broken line stung like a broken rib.

Cas, damn him, flashes a lopsided grin. “It’s why you love us so much.”

He’s joking, but in that Cas-like way where it’s very hard to tell. So Dean chooses to misinterpret and pray for the best.

“Yeah.” It’s quiet enough to be overlooked. Cas’ expression goes slack and pretty with surprise. Just Dean’s fucking luck. “Hang on,” He cuts off any reply, “I have something for you.” He reopens Baby’s trunk and, after taking a deep breath, pulls out the beige bundle. “Saw this in a bargain bin a while back. It, uh…”

Cas spares him. “Reminded you of me.” He takes the trench coat and unfurls it. It’s a dead ringer for the one Cas — No, _Casey_ had worn when they met, all the way back in 2008. It’s not warm, but that doesn’t matter now that Cas has juice again. He strips the leather jacket he wore as a hunter and dons the trench coat. It fits like a glove.

“Claire could use that jacket,” Dean points out, voice rough. The girl’s been using Sam’s while they run errands and needs something that won’t dwarf her.

“Yes, it’s perfect,” agrees Cas. “Thank you, Dean. This… you’re perfect.”

Dean’s teeth are gonna rot, and they’re about to head their own ways, so he takes Cas in a gruff embrace. Pats his back. Doesn’t drop his mouth to the trench coat’s collar.

“Meet up in Lawrence in a week,” He repeats the plan instead of any of a hundred thoughts in his brain, “No matter what we come up with, okay?” Cas nods, hair brushing his neck, and Dean wishes time would stop and give him this a little longer.

 

* * *

 

It happens when Kevin isn’t expecting it.

In hindsight, he’d been getting sloppy, leaving the van to run food errands himself. But the chicken nuggets in his backpack smell so good, who could blame him. It’s so hard for a teenager to feel confined.

He’s unprepared when a man in a suit grabs his arm on the sidewalk. “Kevin Tran, Prophet of the Lord,” The man rasps in awe. Shit. Kevin lashes out with his legs, but it’s like kicking solid steel. “Raphael,” The man prays, “I have a holy man in my possession.” A small part of him is distracted by pride; _man_ , ha ha. He can’t grow facial hair.

“Very good, Jegudiel,” A slimy voice Kevin knows must be Raphael cuts in. “You may go.” The obedient if oddly named angel takes off, and Kevin’s left with the severe female Archangel.

“You’re not one of mine,” Raphael declares, tilting her head. “Kevin Tran, who is the Archangel that watches over you?” She lifts her hand and Kevin braces for his brain to boil or something equally horrific.

“Surprise, bitch,” Gabriel’s voice makes his knees buckle, “Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.” Opening his eyes — yeah, he closed them when he thought he was about to die, so what? — Kevin sees Gabriel’s back directly in front of him, a solid blockade between the prophet and smitey Archangel.

“I always wish,” Raphael growls, the ground rumbling with her, “And yet you’re the bad penny in my shoe.”

Gabriel clucks his tongue. “Mashing idioms.” He looks over his shoulder, meets Kevin’s gaze. “Sorry for the long wait, had an errand that ran long.” There’s something in his voice, Kevin can’t place it, when he adds, “I told you help would always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask.” It’s Harry Potter, Kevin gets that, but he doesn’t _get it_ until his backpack suddenly sags with weight.

He’s 80% certain the sorcerer’s stone just appeared in his pocket.

“You’ve come to your death, brother.” Raphael drags Gabriel’s focus back.

“Yeah,” The Archangel says quietly, “But I’m not giving up without a fight. Not this time, Ralph.” Gabriel lunges forward and grasps his sibling by the shoulders.

There shouldn’t be time, the encounter should take milliseconds. And yet as Kevin watches, his heart sinking, time seems to slow. With Raphael struggling sluggishly, Gabriel glances back at him.

He winks.

Then Kevin is alone.

His backpack hums. Reaching in with shaking fingers, his skin brushes stone. Like a closed circuit, the vision leaps into him.

Alright. He knows what he has to do.

 

* * *

 

“Goat blood is better,” Sam insists, leg bouncing in the footwell.

“I am not breaking into a petting zoo. We ruin enough kids’ dreams.”

“So instead we’re gonna kill a cat? That’s not much better.”

“ _Stray_ cat, not like it’s someone’s pet.”

“I used to play with stray cats.”

“Well, Sammy, you were a freak without any friends.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

They’re quiet for a beat, bracing for something that doesn’t come. Right, Sam realizes as they both sheepishly relax, Jo isn’t in the backseat to whack the backs of their heads. Needling each other suddenly loses all appeal.

They’re erring on the side of more is more when collecting supplies. Kali is associated with human skulls and fire, so Sam and Dean have been hitting up graveyards. There’s a plastic tub in the backseat that’s been double wrapped with duct tape. It’s incredibly unpleasant work and they’re both glad Claire in particular doesn’t have to know the details. They need witches for things like sage or rubies or whatever might be needed for ‘fire’ so Dean pulls into a fancy new aged crystal store by an outlet mall.

“Amber, citrine, flint, sulphur,” Sam repeats as they enter the store. It smells overwhelmingly of incense. Dean sneezes.

“I got it,” He retorts, “This ain’t my first witchy rodeo.”

“Can I help you?” The slender goth chick behind the counter is watching them warily. There’s only one other person in the store, a teenage girl checking out rings. Sam ambles over non-threateningly to the counter.

“Yeah, hi, my brother and I were just wondering which fire elementals you have on hand? Like, however many varieties you’ve got?”

They leave purses lighter but weighed down with 10 kinds of rocks.

“What are non-witches doing with this crap?” Dean gripes as they slide into the Impala.

He doesn’t want a serious answer, which is why Sam replies, “I think these are meant to stimulate creativity. Tons of people swear by them.”

Dean shoots him a glare and opens his mouth, no doubt to tell him another generalization about ‘tons of people’, but an arm comes out of nowhere and pistol whips him. Dean hits the dash hard and Sam twists towards the backseat as he reaches for his own piece.

“Freeze,” The girl from inside has her aim on him, “Sam Winchester, I’m bringing you in.”

“I’d like to see you—” The world goes black.

 

* * *

 

This is what she gets for finding a witch through Craigslist.

“Look Delta, I don’t like being jerked around. Do you know what I’m after or not?”

“I’ve never heard of a ‘demonic soul parasite’,” Delta protests, crossing her arms. “I’ve got this funny feeling you’re not telling me everything. If you sold your soul, take it up with demon you kissed, I can’t—”

“Been there, done that, honey.” Before Delta can harp on that point, Jo bulldozes along. “It’s an infection of the soul, there have to be counter-measures against it. If you can’t help me, put me in touch with more powerful covens that can.”

It strikes Jo that she’s totally pulling a suburban soccer mom ‘I wanna speak to your manager’ type bullshit. Something to laugh about later.

Delta scowls. “White magic practitioners are rare, and they won’t have the oomph you need. Obvi I could send you to their websites, there’s this one—”

Delta’s cut off by the window breaking. Jo hears the cartridge hit the floor and she vaults over the counter. She pins a shocked Delta beneath her body and braces for the explosion. It goes off with a _pow_ , but no smoke, no shrapnel. Jo heaves for breath, lifting her head. The silent stillness is worse.

“The Hell have you got me into!” Delta hisses, but Jo claps her mouth shut. She listens for a moment, and then…

Oh. Her lungs take in the air more raggedly with each inhale. The world sways around her. There’s a tickle on the back of her neck she associates with…

“Fucking witches,” Jo slurs right before she slumps unconscious.

 

* * *

 

“Turn left!” Her son calls from the passenger seat, his eyes scrunched tightly shut. The stolen car careens left down the narrow street. She feels like an asian stereotype, but it isn’t her fault her son’s prophetic visions are laggier than a GPS. “They’re here, turn in that, no, wait—” Linda slams on the brakes, and Kevin is saved from more headache by the seat belt. Kevin unbuckles and jumps out of the car.

“Do you even—” The door slams. Linda questions her parenting skills. She’s left fuming in the stolen minivan for only a few minutes. Kevin appears in the side mirror dragging what looks like a bewildered homeless man by the cuff of his ratty beige trench coat. “Oh Jesus,” Linda breathes out.

All she wanted was for her son to be a successful doctor or lawyer. Instead, this is her life.

Kevin slides open the stolen — no, she won’t forget that detail — van’s door and shoves the homeless man inside.

“Who’s Columbo?” Linda demands.

“Angel,” Kevin says, “Or sort of not. I know he’s important, okay?”

“Kevin Tran,” The sort-of-not-angel mumbles in a daze, “Prophet of the Lord.”

“Hey!” Linda tenses at the shout. Her foot is poised over the accelerator. They aren’t about to get arrested for kidnapping on her watch.

Kevin whirls around with his arms out, as if one teenage boy could block the sight of a full grown man sprawled inside a minivan. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Yeah?” Linda has to crane to see the speaker. A blonde girl, around Kevin’s age, wearing a man’s brown leather jacket, advances on the van. Linda’s brief moment of ease is erased when the girl pulls a gun out from the back of her jeans and aims it at her son. “Do bullets hurt angels? I don’t mind plugging you with a full round to find out.”

“We’re not angels!” Kevin protests with his hands up.

“Get in the car!” Linda shouts at her dumbass child.

“Claire!” The dazed sort-of-not-angel rockets up off the floor.

“Let him go!” The girl with a gun demands, audibly clicking off the safety.

Kevin’s head drops as another vision floods him. They’re coming faster and faster now. Linda tries not to dwell on what kind of omen that must be. At least the girl is thrown by the sudden movement and doesn’t shoot. The man in her back seat takes hold of Kevin’s shoulder, and Kevin gasps.

“We have to go,” He reports, “Claire, Cas, get in the car.”

“How—” The girl, whom Linda now assumes is Claire, lowers her weapon.

“Come in,” The sort-of-angel who must be Cas beckons to the girl, “We can trust him.”

“When he says we gotta go, we gotta go,” Linda shouts. “So all aboard or I’m leaving you in the dust.”

They go. Linda barrels out of Kansas with her son, an angel, and a teenage maniac in her back seat. Yeah, this is her life.

 

* * *

 

There’s been a black hood over her head for as long as Jo’s been conscious. From the air temp and quality, she’s guessing she’s underground. Other than that, information is not forthcoming, that is until she hears the sounds of people fighting. Jo tenses, but the sounds die out, right before the hood is swiftly pulled off.

“Chill,” A young woman, maybe a few years younger than Jo, advises. “We’re totally ready to knock you out if you act up.”

Jo ignores the threat, takes in her surroundings quickly. Opulent, that’s the first word to come to mind. Swirled tiled floors, rich brown wood, books lining all the walls, it’s got a distinctive vintage flair. There’s tons of people, all armed, surrounding the long table Jo sits in front of. She cranes her neck and, _oh_ … That was the sounds.

Sam sits, equally bound, his hair in disarray like he just lost a black hood too. Dean is by his side, only difference is he’s got a white rag tied around his mouth. They both huff and puff uselessly.

“You idiots got caught,” Jo berates them, but what she really means is, _You’re alive, thank Christ, it’s so good to see you_.

“You’re in a position to talk,” Sam replies, but she hears, _It’s so great to see you too_.

Jo jerks her head at Dean, “Why does he get the muzzle?”

“Same as always,” Sam sighs, “He wouldn’t shut up.”

Dean grumbles around the gag and glares at the pair of them.

“My my, look what the cat dragged in.” The three look up. Heels clack on the marble floors, and Jo’s heart rate picks up.

A woman, stately, glamorous stalks towards them from the inner bowels of the compound. There’s lines on her face to indicate she’s at least in her 70s, but her hair is dyed a deep flaming red. She moves with grace, without a hint of arthritis. In fact there’s nothing frail about her until she points with her hands, and the thin skin there belies her age, despite the long fake nails, also blood red.

“Let me guess,” The woman drawls, a hint of southern twang in her voice, “Winchester, Winchester, and Harvelle, right?”

“Who the Hell’s asking?” Jo grunts.

“You’ve got attitude, don’t you, honey?” She smirks, surveying Sam and Dean. “Typical hunters. All muscle, no brain, bless your hearts.” Both of them prickle at the remark, but thankfully Dean’s still gagged and his response is unintelligible. Jo glares at him like, _this is what you get for being a snarky bastard_.

“Whatever you think we’ve done,” Sam starts placatingly, “We’re innocent. We’ve been set up.”

The woman hums thoughtfully. “Then you’re not the three hunters who were at the center of all that demonic activity ‘round 2009?” She pins Jo in her unflinching gaze. “‘Cause all sources, hunter and demon, say you’re the one that released the King of Hell.”

“I…” Jo sputters. “Sources… How do you know all that? Who are you?”

“Josie Sands,” She answers, gesturing to herself and then to the compound at large, “Leader of the Women of Letters. You’re in one of our last bunkers, underground in a secure location. These nice folks here are members and initiates of the oldest surviving network of preceptors, observers, beholders, chroniclers of the arcane mysteries of our world. You best show respect.”

“What do you want with us?”

Josie sits in the large chair at the head of the table. She peers down its length at them, dripping disdain. “It was high time we held trial for your actions in the demonic uprising, but now with these accusations by the normals, there’s no point beating around the bush. Should you be found guilty, your bodies will be found by the proper authorities and the case put to rest.”

“Demonic uprising,” Sam repeats, his brow furrowed like when he’s deep in thought, “You said we released the King of Hell… You know… it was Lucifer… the Archangel?” A ripple of unease goes through the assembled initiates, though not Josie. “You… do know about the angels?”

Josie leans back and says confidently, “There’s no evidence that angels or archangels have been seen on Earth for millennia.”

Jo actually throws back her head and laughs. She’s sure everyone’s staring like she’s crazy, Sam and Dean included, but she can’t help herself. “Oh baby, I fucking wish!”

 

* * *

 

Anna sits vigil at Ruby’s bedside as she has every night. She’s developed a fondness for human magazines, and tonight is discovering the gruesome truth behind Ashton Kutcher’s latest relationship dilemma.

The hospital is very accommodating. They provide her a change of clothes and a set of tasks to benefit the patients, most of which she can accomplish with a small flex of grace. The staff consider her a dedicated employee. No one is bothered by the fact that she remains especially attached to a single patient. In fact, she’s heard her devotion to Ruby classified as ‘sweet’ by the other nurses.

Ruby hasn’t improved. She babbles to Lucifer as though the Archangel is conversing with her. Often she has long stretches of quiet. She doesn’t seem to recognize Anna from Hell. A small touch of her grace lets her track the disease’s process, though it’s dubious how much she’s actually slowed it down.

Her own mind remains a mystery to her. Anna is grateful for the repetitive tasks and the solitude. It allows meditation, which has helped. As does discussing with the hospital’s therapists the subject of PTSD, without naming herself as the patient. The flashbacks and compulsions lessen. It allows Anna to hope that she won’t need to stay away from Jo forever.

The days have passed in pleasant monotony, until tonight.

The door to Ruby’s room bangs open, and Anna is up and spreading her wings for a fight. Her angel blade is summoned to her hand with a thought. Actually seeing the intruders makes her pause.

“Cas?” She greets him cautiously. Naomi’s plan to turn Cas lingers in her mind.

“Anna,” Cas returns the greeting in much the same tone. No doubt he heard of her corruption, but if he himself has been corrupted, did he hear of her defection? They stand on opposite ends of the room sizing one another up.

“I don’t like conflict,” Ruby mutters from her bed, pressing her hands to her ears.

“Cas, Anna, it’s okay.” A teenage boy steps into the room, shortly followed by a teenage girl and middle-aged woman. The boy and woman share genetic resemblance, as does the girl and Cas. This is very confusing. Moreso as Anna truly observes the boy. She’s struck dumb.

“Kevin Tran,” She says in a daze, “Prophet of the Lord.”

“Yeah, okay,” The prophet waves her comment away, “I can see the world, right? Like, I have the power to know things that have to be true?” Anna nods. “So you have to believe me when I tell you that we come in peace. We’re all on the same save-the-Earth side. Look, I can explain everything, let’s all hunker down and relax.”

Anna breathes, the simple human action calming her. “Alright. Would anyone like jello cups?”

 

* * *

 

They’re moved to a smaller room, which Sam takes as a good sign. Josie Sands orders everyone out but one. She has dark curly hair and looks to be about 17.

“The latest initiate, Krissy,” Josie explains lazily, “Will be taking notes. This conversation may go on the record, or not, it will depend on how much you convince me.”

“Of what?” Dean demands. As soon as they removed the gag, Sam hissed at him to let him do most of the talking. Sam never got his law degree, but he was in enough mock trials and debates to feel confident. They don’t need Dean’s belligerence, case in point. “You think we’re really domestic terrorists? Oh wait, you think we’re in league with demons, that us three were enough to cause all the fucking chaos of 2009. Lady, I’m flattered, but you got the wrong dudes.”

Josie releases a put upon sigh. “We’ll see. Start from the beginning.”

Jo blurts out, “Ever read the _Supernatural_ books by Carver Edlund?” Josie shakes her head, but Krissy jolts. Sam holds in his relief; thank God for teenage girls. “They were written by a prophet named Chuck. They’re real, and they’re about our lives.”

“But, if that’s true…” Krissy looks at Dean and blushes.

Josie scrutinizes her initiate. “You know about these books?” The teenager nods bashfully. “And do you think this claim could be true?”

“I… I didn’t think they were real when I read them,” Krissy explains. “But when I was attacked that night, I picked up an iron crowbar, and it made the ghost go away. I was raving to the police about how I knew my attacker was a ghost. That’s how the Women of Letters found me.” She taps her pen on her chin. “In the books, there’s monsters that are real, that the Women of Letters documented. There’s also stuff that we don’t have documented. I was talking to the other initiates about it. One person said the author probably knew about monsters and hunters and used it as a springboard to add even weirder things like angels and Gods.” She looks to Josie. “It’s fiction. I mean, the characters, the plot, it’s got to be. It just borrows a lot from life.”

Sam has an idea, “Why don’t you quiz us? Ask us questions from the books, and we’ll prove it’s from our real lives.” Under any other circumstances, the words would be absurd.

Josie smirks, “Krissy, I cede the questioning to you.”

Crazy actually seems to be working in their favor this time.

Krissy looks petrified for a moment, but composes herself. “Okay. Um, let me think…” She flips through her notepad to blank pages, then wastes time tapping her pen. “Sam,” She says, looking at him dubiously, “Why Stanford?”

Sam gapes; he’d been expecting something like, ‘On August 3rd, 1999, what did you have for breakfast?’ Or maybe ‘What’s the ideal method for dissecting a corpse to confirm a missing heart?’ He’s realizing maybe he should’ve read the books, if merely to get an idea of how in depth they went.

“Um,” He shifts, “I liked the campus and the courses. It offered a really good scholarship, and I could take pre-law classes at—”

“No, no, I mean,” Krissy fumbles with her pen, “There’s a scene in a book that’s a flashback from Dean’s perspective. Sam’s graduated from high school and Dean asks him to start hunting with him.” Dean stiffens suddenly, drawing Sam’s attention. “Sam says no and announces he’s going to Stanford. So, yeah, why didn’t Sam go hunt with Dean?”

“Oh!” Sam exclaims. _Shit_. “I…” He says the easiest answer he can. “I didn’t want to be a hunter.” Eyes front, but his attention’s on Jo and Dean. He hears the rustling of Jo’s clothes, knows she’s telegraphing her discomfort. Their family drama wasn’t Jo’s business, not in the beginning. “Dean was already going on hunts with some of the guys at the Roadhouse. I thought he’d have people watching out for him, he didn’t need me.” That gets Dean exhaling sharply. Sam’s not thinking about that. “Mom and I actually had a big blowout fight about it. I said she should be hunting with Dean if she wanted to babysit him so badly.” The words were harsh then, they’re harsher now. “John talked her down. Our Dad was the only one of us who had a life before hunting, before he met Mary. He said if I wanted to get out, college was the way. So… that’s what I did.”

Until it all got ripped away. Krissy didn’t ask about that though. So Sam stops talking and waits.

Krissy scribbles something down, looking spooked. “Wow. Okay. Um… What did Dean see when he was in the djinn dream?”

Dean clears his throat. “That was, what… 2006? 2007? My parents had just died. Sammy hated me.” He can’t help glancing at his brother. It’s not untrue, and Sam aches to think that’s how Dean remembers that year. “We met up with Jo, and we were all hunting for Ellen, who was hunting for Yellow-Eyes. The djinn showed me…” He coughs, closing his eyes. “It was the day I brought home a girlfriend and announced we were pregnant. My parents were so happy. Sammy, Jo, Ellen and Bill, they all came over, turned into a real party. At the end of the day Mom… cupped my face and told me she was proud of me. The djinn did a good job, I didn’t want to wake up.”

Sam can’t look at his brother. He keeps his head down and his breathing steady. That day, when he cut Dean loose from the blood bag, his heart had nearly stopped. Dean had been a specter for weeks.

“Who was your girlfriend? In the dream, they only briefly talk about her.”

“Cassie Robinson,” Dean reports listlessly, “She was the first — the _only_ — partner I tried to be honest with. In the djinn world, she knew about hunting, and she didn’t mind when I had to go with Sam or Jo to watch their backs. I guess even in the dream it would’ve been crazy for me to give it up.” He huffs ruefully. “Obviously in real life, Cas — I mean, Cassie couldn’t live with it and dumped my ass.”

“That’s…” Krissy jots something on her notepad. “Jo,” She says, switching focus, “Zachariah sent you to 2014. What did you see?” Sam raises his head to stare. What? _What_? He meets Dean’s bewildered gaze. He didn’t know about this either.

Jo ignores them. “Lucifer unleashed the Croatoan virus, and most of humanity was infected. A small faction of hunters and humans were camped out in Chitaugua. I… Future me was the leader. Sam was my SIC, and Cas was… he was an addict. Jo lead them into a suicide mission, and there were no survivors.” She breathes in. “That’s where I learned Lucifer had taken my sister’s body.”

“What happened to Dean and Anna?” Krissy insists.

Sam can see the tendon’s Jo’s neck jump; he’s not going to like the answer. “No one told me at the time, but I figured it out. Lucifer said, ‘No matter what you do to change things, the little details, we always end up here.’ She was right, or I didn’t change enough, I don’t know. Dean said yes to Michael, and Anna was captured by angels and brainwashed. They happened in this timeline and that one, but they didn’t snap out of it there.”

“That’s, wow, it’s all right,” Krissy says, looking down at her notes. “Ma’am, I… I don't know. I think we should listen to them.”

“Everything happened the same,” Jo murmurs, her eyes unfocused, “Dean, Anna, Ruby…”

Josie questions, “Couldn't they have read the same books and deluded themselves?”

“That was the pessimistic view, worst case scenario every time, but the situations happened the same…”

“I guess, but they answered beyond the books every time. If it _is_ them...”

“What if it’s still happening?” Whispers Jo.

Sam leans as far towards her as he can. “Jo, are you okay? Jo?”

“Raphael’s trying to make Hell on Earth,” Jo carries on in the same low distant tone. “We know she’s not as creative. Like with the Roadhouse. She’s following the script.”

“What are you mumbling about?” Josie snaps.

Jo’s head whips up so fast, Sam lurches back. “The Croatoan virus. It’s still out there. Raphael’s going to wipe out humanity.”

The silence in the room is stunned.

“Can we get these things off?” Dean rattles his bindings. “I think we’d better cut the crap and start treating each other like equals.”

 

* * *

 

Kevin surveys the ingredients of the spell in front of him. Sort of.

In the tablet, there’s some really nebulous stuff, but it’s clear to Kevin that the magic isn’t in the details.

He had Cas write a poem to stand in for a nephilim or ‘love born of Heaven and Man’. It’s a godawful poem, too much about green eyes and profound bonds, but the quality isn’t important. He asks for a cutting of hair from Claire, which makes both of them blush, but fits the definition of ‘budding infatuation’, because hey, he’s a boy and she’s cute, don’t need a Cupid for that.

It’s the last part that’s non-negotiable, and Kevin understands why Gabriel had so much trouble reconciling himself to it. He holds the mason jar, washed clean of jam or whatever, and turns it between his hands. He’d started off with a syringe, but that didn’t feel right. Neither did a vial from the hospital’s cupboard. This is the first thing that settled the itch in his brain.

“Yeah,” He murmurs to himself, “It’s gotta be this.”

He leaves it on the rec room table and retreats back to Ruby’s room. Everybody but Ruby herself looks up at him when he enters.

“Cas, Anna,” Kevin announces, trying and failing not to feel like an executioner. “It’s up to you now. Just combine the last of the ingredients in the jar. It’ll take care of the rest.”

Anna stands, weight evenly distributed like a soldier. “You’re positive?” He’d already told them about the last ingredient. Let them talk about it themselves.

Kevin crosses his arms. “I know that Gabriel thought this was the best answer. That’s about it. Everything else is a matter of trust.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but Cas shushes her with a gentle touch. “Come with me, sister,” Cas asks, “I want you with me.” Claire reaches for her uncle, but he shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Claire, I’ve done this before. I’ll be okay.” The certainty in his voice hurts Kevin, because that’s one thing he doesn’t know. It does it’s job of soothing his niece, and Claire relaxes into the arms of his mother.

Hand in hand, the angels leave the room together. Drained, Kevin slumps onto Ruby’s cot. Her warmth seeps into him, as does a thought.

“Oh yeah,” Kevin says, glancing back at Ruby, “Next order of business, getting you back with your sister.”

 

* * *

 

Talking. Endless talking. It’s the most prepared they’ve ever been before doing something stupid.

Dean and Jo took up the reigns like generals. He supposes that’s what long-time hunting makes you, only Sam has never felt like a soldier. Sure, he knows how to clear a room, how to signal nonverbally that it’s time to advance, and more than the average person should ever have to know about weaponry. That isn’t who he is, or at least, that’s not the part of himself he likes the most. On a hunt, he loves the research, the fact finding, even the visits to the morgue or taking witness statements.

It becomes clear that the Women of Letters have a delineation between field teams and base support. So while Dean and Jo talk location scouts and firepower, Sam hangs by Josie and learns about their surveillance tech and spell casters. He scans their archives for references of angels and finds an untouched volume with binding and banishing sigils and spreads the resource on the war table.

Dean doesn’t act surprised when, as the team suits up with automatics and hex bags, Sam claps him on the back and says he’s staying behind.

“No one else could watch our back like you,” Is what Dean tells him. He nods to the monitors displaying the pharmaceutical warehouse they’d narrowed down as the likeliest location. “Stay frosty, bitch.” Sam cuffs his ear, dislodging the earbud there, and watches Dean stalk away to fix it. It’s not often Sam’s grateful for his brother, but this is one of those times.

It’s hard watching his family march out, but they’re flanked by a dozen trained initiates. “Good luck,” Sam says into the microphone at the control console, “Notify when you’re in position.” There’s a crackle in reply, and Sam leans back in his seat. It’s time to wait, him and the initiates playing support, and he thinks he’ll be bored until Josie sits down beside him.

“Exciting enough for you, Winchester?” The elderly woman asks. Sam hasn’t gotten a handle on her yet, beyond that she’s a formidable figure. He nods, satisfying her question.

“Your archives are incredible,” He compliments. “I can’t imagine how many times the knowledge in there would have helped us out.” It’s a struggle trying not to be bitter.

“If everyone in the world was afraid of the dark, nothing would get done.” Josie shifts, her back popping. She lets out a long groan. “I'll level with you, Sam, I skimmed the books Krissy showed me. In between the terrible prose and trite family drama, there were details that stood out. The natural disaster in Carthage, for example. We measured intense demonic activity preceding that day.”

“Measured?” Sam's tracked things like freak storms or outbreaks, but those are symptoms of demons, and they don’t play out in real time.

“Our instruments are very delicate, but no, before you ask, dear,” She fixes him with a knowing look, “They’re calibrated for demonic power, not angelic.” Sam doesn’t bother masking his disappointment. “This society has a long history,” Josie carries on, “Used to be the Men of Letters. There was a terrible attack on the elders by a demon named Abbadon, back when I was just an initiate. She nearly wiped us all out, all of us in the States, that is. Except she made one mistake: she spared me. I rebuilt the US chapter with my bare hands, Sam.”

A formidable woman for sure.

“I’ll tell you something else. When I was an initiate, I was partnered with a man named Henry Winchester.” Sam startles at the name. “Yeah, he’d been telling me about his newborn son, Johnny, but Abbadon got him too young.” Josie scrutinizes him. “Not sure how Henry’d feel about his grandsons becoming hunters, but I think he’d be proud of the good work you and Jo have got up to.”

There’s a lot to digest there, but he picks one to harp on. “Does this mean no trial?” Sam ventures.

“Not for Henry’s sake, that’d be nepotism,” Josie reprimands him. “Let’s see these angels, get this virus, and if your stories still hold up, we can all go our separate ways.”

 

* * *

 

The wound glistens with grace, silver, fluid, pure light and power. It doesn’t burn Anna’s eyes, but it ignites the memory of Balthazar, of murdering her trusted friend under orders. She hasn’t changed nearly as much as she’d hoped.

“It hurts,” Cas says, his hand poised over the wound. “No matter how much I want it gone… I remember the pain and it stops me.” He breathes deeply, steadily. Anna is struck by his humanity. Her brother truly makes a beautiful human. “I must. I will.”

In a jerking move, as though he acted before he could hesitate again, his hand plunges into his own chest, disappearing to the wrist. Cas gasps, and Anna clutches his knee tightly. His pain hurts her, raw and new. He clenches his jaw on a scream as his fingers search.

“I…” He pants. “I… I have… It… I…”

Anna takes hold of Cas’ elbow and pulls.

The scream and the grace is ripped out of him at once.

Quickly, Anna moves to trap it in the jar, and as it swirls and settles there she observes it with despair.

“It’s not enough,” She tells him. Cas raises his head, muscles trembling, and sees the faint pulse lining the bottom of the glass. It curls around the lock of hair and slip of paper, but the objects remain separate. There is no spark.

“You’re right. I was closer to fallen than I thought. The fact that I’m still conscious is further proof.” The wound on his stomach drips blood, and blood alone. Cas presses his shirt there and curls in to protect it. An unpleasant though not fatal wound for a human.

There’s only one option. Anna feels it with certainty that scares her. As though for all their talk of Free Will, Destiny has caught up with her at last.

“It needs mine,” Anna states flatly. She twirls the angel blade to extend it, hilt first, to her brother. “You must take it.”

“Anna,” Cas shakes his head, “We don’t know what this will do to you. Yours is a part of you, it isn’t like Samandriel’s.”

“Is there another way?”

She watches his mental struggle play out on his face. “We walk away. Leave Gabriel’s plan unfinished.”

“Then he has died for nothing and Heaven continues to plague humanity. Jo and the Winchesters are constantly hunted, as are we.” Anna pushes the blade at him until he wraps his fingers cautiously around it. “It’s for the best,” She says, “Not the greater good. It’s the lesser of evils to protect the people we love.” It’s her time to be scrutinized, and she allows her resolution to shine through her body.

Cas hisses as he sits up. “Very well, but we do this my way.” Anna is curious about why the method should differ. He picks up on it before she asks. “Hold out your wrist.” She does, bearing her right forearm for his inspection. Fleetingly she recalls Hell, reaching for a soul on the rack, The Righteous Woman, grasping hold of her wrist and pulling her up, up, up.

The cut comes quick, and unprepared, Anna sucks in breath. Looking down, she sees a thin trace of silver peeking through the line on her arm. Cas holds the jar beneath as the grace slowly seeps out.

“You are not dying,” He murmurs, pinching her arm as the glass begins to fill, “Not if I can help it.”

_Drip._

_Drip._

The wisps of her power coil in the glass.

_Drip._

_Drip._

Her head feels light. Unlike flying, she is floating, possibly never to return.

_Drip._

_Drip._

Cas really had very little grace to give.

_Drip._

_Drip._

She will die regardless of Cas’ caution. She can feel her wings spreading, twitching, aching, as they are picked clean. Imagines them burnt out, streaks of soot on the polished hospital floor.

_Drip._

_Drip._

Anna thinks of Jo, and hopes this is in her capacity to forgive.

_Drip._

“Enough!” Cas cries. “Anna, heal!” He shakes her, wrapping both hands around her arm, despite how much it must _burn_. “Heal, sister! _Anna!_ ”

Blinding light consumes her vision and Anna’s eyes close.

 

* * *

 

Over the factory floor, where noxious liquid from barrels gets siphoned into test tubes, the megaphone crackles into life. The workers pause from loading crates with the racks of vials.

The static condenses into a single word, “ _Christo_.”

The factory erupts into chaos.

“You’ve got over a dozen black-eyes on the main floor,” Sam informs her through the earpiece. “No humans sighted.”

“Awesome,” Jo replies, and gives the signal. Dean clicks the fuse.

_Wham!_

The gate blows open and Jo leads the troop inside. She lobs the hex bag like a grenade as she rushes in. It explodes, and the ‘demon bomb’ as Krissy called it, works like a charm. The three caught in its blast scream in pain. Jo hefts her rifle around and lets loose a barrage to catch a fourth. It fills the guy’s stomach with the special silver bullets that, true to the WOL’s word, work just as well as salt rounds.

She’s attuned to the sound, so as soon as Dean grunts in pain, she’s got her rifle pointed his way. He doesn’t need her, he kicks the demon off him and fires his semi-automatic. It launches his assailant into some boxes and Jo relaxes.

“Clear,” Sam tells them, and Jo surveys the floor and sees that it’s true. Fuck, that didn’t take long, if only they had these initiates with them all the time. “Next floor up, there’s some suits, I’m thinking angels. They know you’re coming.”

“Beta team,” Jo barks, “Stay and confirm sulphur traces. Alpha team, move up.” They split, and Jo, Dean, and Josie’s best find the stairs and climb. Jo feels naked going into this fight without an angel blade, suspects Dean feels the same.

Top of the stairs, waiting at the second landing, there’s an angel made unmistakable by her grey pencil skirt and rigid posture. She holds out her hand, ready to throw them around with a thought.

Jo commands in angelic speech, “ _Bolp a-m-ipzi!_ ” Stunned, whether by the Enochian curse or her probably butchered pronunciation, it doesn’t matter. The angel freezes up for crucial seconds, enough for Jo to launch her second hexbag. This one carried the usual cat bones and herbs with the added kick of what Sam coined the ‘angel suppression sigil’ drawn on the bag in blood. The combination of the Enochian and the hexbag knocks the angel unconscious. “Fuck, yes,” Jo exclaims in relief as they file past the woman’s body. She’d half expected that not to work.

Two more angels come to intercept, and Jo bypasses them, trusts Dean to handle them. There’s an office that overlooks the factory floor, that’s where the angels are going to be holed up. Krissy keeps to her six and when Jo drops to her knees outside the office, she follows suit.

“Molotov,” Jo commands, and Krissy rummages through her pack to produce the bottle of Holy Oil. They’d pulled the same trick back in Stull Cemetary. Jo knows it isn’t fatal, but it’ll pack a wallop. She passes the bottle and the cotton fuse over to Jo. It takes precious moments to pack it. Jo blocks out the sounds of Dean and his team behind them, narrows her focus to her hands, which is why she jerks when Krissy grabs her arm.

“What is that?” She asks, sounding frantic for the first time.

Jo stops and pays attention. There’s a tremor running through the building. It shakes the windows and the concrete floors. It builds intensity and doesn’t stop. Jo lurches to her feet and batters in the office door. The unlit Holy Molotov is up, but she hesitates to throw it once she sees the inside.

Silver pours from the mouths of the few men and women clustered there. Blinding light circles in the air and rises like smoke, until it seems to be sucked through the ceiling. The vessels collapse and Jo stumbles backwards.

“Come on,” She says, then corrects herself, “Fall back!”

Krissy takes off running with her, and they quickly find Dean’s team standing over similarly collapsed vessels. Jo repeats her order. The factory hasn’t stopped shaking and she’s not convinced it won’t crash down on their heads.

“What’s going on?” Sam worries down their headsets. “The computers are going crazy over here!”

“Power readings are off the charts!” Josie takes over the feed. “It’s coming in from across the globe! Harvelle, what’ve you done?”

“Nothing!” Jo yelled. “Something’s up with the angels, but it’s not me!”

They emerge outside, the Earth rumbling under their boots. Jo counts heads and unclenches, then turns her gaze up.

“Holy Hell…” Dean breathes.

The blue sky is overtaken by a swirling vortex of white light. It rushes up towards… the Heavens. Heaven.

Could… could that mean what she thinks it means?

Finally the process ends, the light blinks out, and the air is still. The factory stays standing. The humans are left alone and bewildered.

Jo marshals her thoughts and orders, “Let’s grab the goods and move out. We can deal with whatever the Hell that was at the bunker.”

 

* * *

 

Death waits.

Death watches silently as time slips on. Observes the humans’ frantic efforts wasting precious beats of their hearts. Observes the angels’ crowning victory, the massacre of the rebellion, and laments that angels are not his to reap, that they merely cease to illuminate. Observes their reapers continue to act as mindless drones beholden to Raphael’s will, and though this ignites their fury, still Death waits.

At last the time has come.

Death creeps upon the scene. It takes place in space, two colossal giants of light and ions smashing at one another, sending up sprays that could be stars later. The rebel, the one that calls itself Gabriel, fights like a cornered, martyred thing. Raphael is haughty and vain. Now and then the new ‘God’ allows Gabriel to get a hit in, to do some damage, content that all can be fixed.

A war of attrition, as Gabriel weakens, and Raphael strikes the final blow.

“You should have stayed away,” The victor growls down at the shuddering body. “We might have carried on as brothers, and yet you insisted on opposing me. I feel no shame, believe me.”

Gabriel is lost. The mass and energy of the once great Archangel implodes and is scattered. Death hopes it will become integral to beautiful things, to life, to starlight.

Raphael expands with glee and never notices Death approach.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come for you?” Death whispers from behind. The ‘God’ shudders, attempts to turn and face the speaker, but Death renders Raphael paralyzed. “When you were an Archangel, you were none of my concern. You could have kept to your plane and our paths would never have crossed. And yet you chose to cross me. The instant you came for my children and twisted them for your purpose you sealed your fate.”

Raphael is bolder than anticipated. “ _Horseman_ —”

Death lifts their cane and points. “Do those injuries look bad to you?” Stymied, Raphael takes stock. Death savors the moment the ‘God’ realizes. Angels, beings of Light, work in mathematics, probability being one. Probably, the Archangel would have lived. “My job isn’t easy, you know? Life has infinite chances, while I deal in black and white. There’s no in between. I must make those tough decisions of who lives and who dies.” The injuries fester, growing rapidly, increasing Raphael’s terror. They thrash and glow and shiver to no avail. Death is strong and their will absolute.

“I’m not yours!” Raphael roars. “I’m not yours to take!”

“I have dominion over those with souls,” Death tells them, a tone one might even call gentle in their voice, “And you have more than enough to make you _mine_.”

Raphael dies alone in space. No one in Heaven and Earth knows. The last remnants of Archangel are flung across galaxies and forgotten. The souls flock to Death immediately, and Death cherishes them.

“My darlings, my dears, you were so brave. Don’t fret, I’ll put you all to rest now. Your trials are over.”

 

* * *

 

_Thus, the forces of Heaven and Hell are vanquished by our conquering, fallible, human and human-loving protagonists. Free Will reigns supreme on an Earth untouched by Heaven, at long last. What they’ll do with it is anyone’s guess..._

“And that’s about it, really,” Metatron finishes up to the assembly. “I think the story has a lot of potential, I’m excited to see it through.”

One of the crowd raises a hand, and Metatron welcomes her comment. “I guess… It seems like there’s a lot of loose ends? Like, did Anna survive? That was pretty ambiguous.”

“Uh…”

When Heaven became a gaping chasm pulling everyone in by their wings, Metatron had had to beat a hasty retreat. There hadn’t been time to observe the minor details.

“What about Ruby?” Another one asks. “Does Jo find a cure?”

“Do the romances pan out like in Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“Of course!” Metatron assures them with mild panic. “I enjoy leaving some ambiguity for the audience, so they can come up with their own interpretations, but obviously I appreciate happy endings. They’re so important in bringing home the emotional impact of a story. I mean, without a light at the end of the tunnel, all the darkness the characters endured would mean nothing.”

“Good,” The director says, adjusting her dark rimmed glasses, “So what happens?”

Shit.

“I figure,” Metatron spins a yarn, “All the characters reunite at the Women of Letters’ bunker. We get the romantic Dean/Cas and Jo/Anna resolutions, they talk about their feelings, yadda yadda. The Women of Letters have practitioners of white magic and centuries of research stored in that bunker, so once they get a look at Ruby, they figure out which purifying ritual to use on her and purge Lucifer’s influence. Instead of being tried for false crimes, the Women of Letters work to clear their name, and Jo and the Winchesters aren’t wanted criminals anymore. Everyone can go back to their old way of life, you know, if they want.”

“Aren’t the Women of Letters kind of a Deus Ex Machina?” One intrepid writer pipes up.

Metatron laughs. “Ha, no, that would be if God himself showed up to fix everyone’s problems. An underground society is much more plausible.” He senses a ripple of doubt run through the room, and tacks on, “With all the crazy monsters and demons and stuff, who else was keeping the general public in the dark? There had to be some shadowy organization pulling the strings, otherwise the premise of the show falls apart.”

“They were presented as antagonists in the first place,” One writer argues with the first, “They’re more like Devil Ex Machina.”

“No, that’d be like if they needed Lucifer’s help. Both are ludicrous ideas, mine is much better.”

“Okay, but—”

“Hey now, this isn’t set in stone,” He assures them. “This is just the groundwork, you know, a first draft. We’ll have plenty to time to fine tune it for next season.”

“Alright,” The director stands, and the writers follow suit, “That sounds like a wrap to me.” She circles the table and shakes his hand firmly. “Marvin, I can speak for all of us when I say we’re excited to see where you take us as showrunner. I think we’ll do great things.”

“Thank you,” Metatron simpers, “I know we will.”

Yes, he likes this dimension much better. How convenient to have stumbled upon it.

 

* * *

 

_**One Year Post-Heaven** _

 

“You’re under my roof—”

“Maybe I don’t wanna be!”

“Then get out!”

“Fine!”

The agreement rings through the house.

Shocked out of his anger, Dean can’t move. He can’t blink. He towers over the teenager, blonde curls falling from her bun, watching tears spill over her red cheeks.

Voice small, he says, “Claire…” The sentence has nowhere to go.

Claire reels back, bare feet finding the path to the stairs, “You’re not my dad, Dean! You’re the guy boning his twin! You can’t, you can’t—” Whatever he can’t do is lost as her voice goes. In a whip of teenage flurry, she stomps up the stairs. Her slammed door knocks Dean like a left hook.

“Fuck.” He grabs his keys from the kitchen island. “Shit.” He pulls on his brown leather jacket. “Damnit!” He thumps the doorframe as he pulls it open and heads out into the balmy Northern California night. His Baby is parked in the driveway, and muscle memory propels him into the front seat before he realizes he’s not alone. “Jesus, Cas, how long you been creeping in here?”

“You and Claire needed to let out some steam,” Cas says, carefully neutral. “I assumed one of you would come out here eventually.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean wipes his hand over his mouth, lets his head hit the seat, closes his eyes, “She’s probably packing a bag, so you better go in.” Dean doesn’t have Cas’ level of hearing, but he knows the intake of breath, hears it’s reproach, the fear that Dean’s caused.

“I’ll talk her out of it,” Cas vows. Dean’s unconvinced and laughs to prove it. “Dean.” His tone forces Dean to look at him. They say a lot without words. The way Cas is now, in the near blackness of the Impala, not touching him, yet utterly focused on him, says multitudes. _I’ll fix this, then we’ll talk. It’s okay. Come home tonight._

Dean breathes, “Yeah.” They both hop out of the car and go their own way, Cas up the path to their home, Dean down the road to the bar. The route’s well traveled.

After he settles himself at the bar, a double whiskey neat is put in front of him within minutes. He drinks at an uneven pace, alternating gulps like shots with long stretches of contemplation.

Instead of torturing him with the replays of his latest blowout with Claire, his mind provides highlights of fights with his parents. “ _You’re too young_ ,” John stated firmly, “ _You’ll get yourself hurt, kid_.” Mary, her jaw set, looking far from kind, “ _You’re acting plum stupid, Dean. Why won’t you just stay in school?_ ” And the last, before they died, “ _We don’t need your backup, boy_ ,” Mary barked, “ _You got enough on your plate saving your own behind._ ”

Had it really taken him ‘til near 35 to get it? Him forbidding Claire from learning the trade, John and Mary with him, they were all the same. Parents trying to keep their wayward kids alive. 20 years of self-esteem issues, and he’s finally getting that it wasn’t about him.

At quarter to midnight, he settles up and makes his way home. To himself, he chuckles, and hiccups. Home, he never thought he’d get one. A place to return to between hunts. Maybe even somewhere to retire, rest his unloaded shotgun on the mantle, strewn with souvenirs which spawn tall tales he'll tell to anyone he can.

Shit, he’s the new Bobby.

With Sam settled on Southern California for school, they wanted to give the kid space but be close enough to visit. They compromised on a long drive up the pacific coast. When Dean found the house, it was a real fixer-upper. Owned by a little old lady who couldn’t maintain it by the end, auctioned off by grandkids who couldn’t give a crap, but Dean saw its potential. He liked a project.

Cas could work at any Silicon Valley start up he wants. Cas likes to remind Dean that he was once a being made of pure energy, with a superpowered mind, and so math comes incredibly easy to him. Instead, him and Jo’s pal Charlie have been working on a darknet resource for hunters, or as Charlie puts it, _Lorenet_. Eons of Cas’ angel knowledge combined with all of Dean’s journals gets digitized and encrypted for trusted hunters only. It’ll save a lot of lives.

Dean’s been building him a kickass home office. It overlooks the backyard beehive Cas is cultivating. Dean finds new ways to add honey to every meal he cooks.

It feels as insubstantial as a dream. More than once on very good days the word djinn hovers at the back of his mind. It's days like this, when he's so close to fucking everything up, that he knows it's real, and breakable.

He stumbles through the door and makes a beeline for the living room. No way he’s welcome in bed tonight, he thinks, but lo and behold, Cas is waiting on the couch. He takes one look at Dean’s sorry state, and pats his thigh. Dean nearly trips over his own feet going over to him. He sprawls on the couch, his head pillowed in Cas’ lap, and sighs.

“Fucked up,” He mumbles.

Cas begins stroking through his hair. “No you didn’t. Claire isn’t going anywhere. She’s merely frustrated.”

“Jo’s a bad influence.”

“You know that’s not it. Despite what she said, she admires you. It’s natural to emulate a parent.”

“S’was right,” Dean slurs, turning to glance up at Cas, “M’not her dad.” Cas doesn’t have a quick answer to that. He keeps up his soothing rhythm as Dean rambles on. “She deserves to know what she wan’s to know. S’stupid to keep it from her.”

“I don’t really want her going off and hunting either, mind you,” Cas points out. “But, I don’t object to training her in controlled environments, and there’s no one else she or I would trust more than you.” Dean doesn’t muster up a verbal response. He grunts. Cas isn’t phased, and when he speaks, it’s thoughtful. “If you’re bothered by, er, the lack of clear parenthood, as it stands. Well, there’s a simple solution.”

Dean hums, but mostly because Cas is scratching the fine hairs at his neck.

“If you married me,” Cas proposes idly, “It would be easy to make you her legal guardian as well.”

Dean chokes a bit ‘cause he’s pretty sure Cas just proposed.

“Fuck.” It’s as eloquent as anyone could expect him to be. “Cas, for fuck’s…. Ask me next week. Hell, ask me anytime I’m not half drunk. Any—Anytime I won’t look back and remember a fuck-awful night, you know?”

“That’s a very fair point, Dean,” Cas replies, with a hint of laughter, “I’ll ask again later.”

“But, you know,” Dean flails with his hands, “I’ll say—”

“Hush, dear. No spoilers.”

 

* * *

 

“FBI, Agent Cornell speaking.”

“Oh baby, you know your FBI voice gets me so hot,” His sometimes-lover-always-friend moans theatrically. Sam chokes on his own spit.

“Ruby, for the last time, don’t do that to me. This is the FBI line, not the make-Sam-blush line.”

“How else am I supposed to get my kicks on the road?” He can hear cars vooming by, imagines she’s stopped at gas station or something. Ruby confirms it with, “Fallen angels have tiny bladders, have you noticed?”

“You’ll have to ask Dean,” He deflects, but lets himself relax. Leaning against the wall, he lets Ruby’s idle chatter seep over him. Her voice is nearly enough to defuse his tension. Too soon though he starts reciting the text in his head.

She knows when he stops listening and pulls him out of it without fail. “Next time we meet up, I’m definitely doing that thing, you know, you asked for that time—”

Sam bangs his head. “Oh my God, _stop_.”

“I’m serious!”

“I know you are, that’s why I said _stop_. I’ve got to sit through a two-hour lecture, I can’t be thinking about, you know, _that_.”

“It’s the first day and it’s a summer course, how bad can it be?”

“It’s an intensive course, fast track to—” He cuts himself off. Her reason for calling becomes clear. He’s only been stressing about today for a month, of course she remembered. “I’ve told you all this before, you’re just trying to rile me up.”

“If you didn’t make it so easy, I wouldn’t have to!” Ruby’s laugh comes down the line, and Sam covers his grin with his textbook so the students passing him won’t think he’s crazy. Hell, he’s newly 30 and back in college, they already think he’s crazy.

“Well mission accomplished,” He tells her. The tension’s completely gone from his shoulders and he can breathe normally for the first time today. “I’ve got to go, I’m just loitering outside the classroom like a creep.”

“A sexy creep, Edward Cullen levels,” She counters, then relents. “You’ll do great. I think Jo’s planning on swinging us back through Texas, so we’ll meet up in a few weeks. Knock ‘em dead, sport.” Ruby signs off without any goodbyes; they’ve had enough of those.

With a lighter heart, Sam enters the classroom and gets his materials all arranged: law book, three ring binder open to loose leaf, pen and backup pen, and smart phone on but silenced in case anyone needs him. It’s a far cry from the supplies he’s got in his Prius out in the parking lot. Yeah, he drives a Prius. Screw Dean.

“Alright class,” A cheerful voice rings out, drawing Sam’s focus front, “Welcome to Application of Judicial Ethics 131. I’m Jessica Moore, I’ll be your professor for this special two month course. I hope you all received the syllabus in my email, if not, please come see me after the lecture.” The professor, who looks about his age, claps her hands and sends her bouncy blonde curls flying. “Let’s get started!”

 

* * *

 

Jo’s back slams into the dirt. No time to whine about it, ‘cause the bald scaly fucker she’s been grappling with is on top of her. Gooey saliva flies onto her face as it spits like a rabid dog. Jo grits her teeth, her hands grabbing its claws and keeping them from ripping into her.

A loud bang makes the creature growl in surprise.

“Fuck, seriously!” The shotgun cocks and fires again. Not even a reaction this time. Jo tries kicking the thing off to no avail. “Damnit, Ruby!” Another shot completely whiffs over the Gollum-looking motherfucker. Jo lets her head fall back on the damp ground to glare at her sister. “Are you shooting with your goddamn eyes closed?”

“A little encouragement would be appreciated!” Ruby fires back. She’s standing about ten feet away and shuffling forward. Jo could’ve made that shot when she was ten.

The creature finally jerks and stops fighting her. Jo pushes it off to the side, where it falls with a throwing knife embedded in the back of its head. She looks up gratefully at the shooter.

“Thank fucking Christ.”

Anna folds her arms. “You could thank me instead.”

“Doesn’t have the same impact.” Jo stands and dusts herself off. Gross. She tugs out the knife. Double gross. Jo uses it to point at Ruby. “You. Target practice. For fuck’s sake.”

Ruby bitches the whole way back to the car. Jo hears the fear in her voice and bitches back twice as hard to keep her mind off the close call. Anna is her usual stoic self except for the way she knots her fingers with Jo’s. They have to let go so Jo can drive.

Dean thought it was hi-fucking-larious that the three chicks hunted in a Volkswagen convertible. He likes to call her and Anna ‘Thelma and Louise’, but only gets away with it once before Jo smacks him.

“And don’t use a shotgun when you could be hitting me, they scatter ya dumbass, that’s what your pistol’s for!”

“Motel room,” Ruby gripes, crossing her arms, “ _Two_ motel rooms. I’m not dealing with the play by play all night.”

Anna leans forward so she and Ruby and Jo are level. “I agree. My back muscles would prefer a suitable bed for a change.”

The former angel has gotten better at not complaining about the indignities of being human. Falling wasn’t easy on her. The first few weeks Anna was totally out of commission. Then came the acclimating to an entirely new species, perspective, and abilities. Wouldn’t be a cakewalk for anyone. Jo’s done her best to help her through it, totally unselfishly, except for when she isn’t.

“Fine,” She concedes to both of them, “Next Super8 we see, we’ll get _two_ rooms.” Jo throws the Bug into reverse.

Words flow in the heat of the moment. When you think you’re about to die, talk of love is easy. That’s what makes it cheap.

It’s harder with the expanse of life ahead of you. When the person you have feelings for is deep in their own shit. When you know they feel _something_ for you, but not what it entails. When you’re not even positive they can give you what you’re looking for.

This isn’t a crush, and Anna isn’t some straight girl in her English class. Tricky to remember when buying two Queen rooms, sheepishly shrugging at Anna, stuttering over the offer for her to choose who to bunk down with.

“I don’t mind sharing with you, Jo,” Anna tells her, which gives Jo zero to work with. _I don’t mind_. Ha.

She’s not laughing when the light’s out and Anna’s head rests on the pillow facing in. No one ever taught her two adults sleep back to back. Hesitantly, Jo slips under the covers, curling into the fallen angel’s space.

“Comfy?” She whispers under the blanket of darkness. It’s an inane question, she’s just too wound up for sleep.

“Yes, and you?” Anna’s guileless and it’s so frustrating.

“I wanna know what you want,” Rushes out of Jo in a needy wave. “‘Cause I don’t know, Anna, I’m trying over here, but I don’t know. Is this it? Just this?”

Blindsided, the poor redhead fumbles for words. “I… Yes. This. I’m happy with this.” Bed sharing. Platonic, innocent bed sharing. Not even cuddling.

Jo adjusts her expectations. “Okay. Yeah. _Whatever_.”

“I can tell you’re misunderstanding me.” Anna breaches the divide, finding Jo’s hand and grasping it. It took six weeks post-programing for her to manage that with confidence. Every touch is an achievement, a gift she shouldn't be spurning out of disappointment. “I’ve gotten better at reading physical and social cues, but I’m not perfect. Let me try to explain.”

It isn’t in Jo’s nature to be patient. And while she isn’t as allergic to feelings as Dean, she’s got her self-preservation tendencies. She tends to avoid situations she doubts will go her way. This is Anna, and she literally owes her the world, so Jo clamps down on the instinct to run, and keeps her stupid mouth shut.

Out of the quiet, Anna begins explaining, each word carefully measured. “One night I visited you while you slept. Naomi had recently finished re-programming me. I was meant to come when you called, and in my eagerness I misread one of your dreams as a prayer. I saw you sleeping and… I _wanted_.” Only an idiot or a virgin could misunderstand her. Jo flushes like the latter, blood rushing heavy in her head. “This was not allowed and triggered the urge to kill you. Let’s not rehash that.” Jo laughs, a little too loud as the tension snaps. It gains a smile from Anna, her soft uncertain one. “Since I met you, you have made me doubt, you have made me question, and you have made me care. And not once have you failed to make me want. So… that’s how I feel.”

She’s witnessed real life miracles. She’s bargained with Death. She’s saved the world.

“I want you, too, Anna. In, _God_ , so many ways.”

“Sexually?”

Jo chokes. “Geez, yeah. That too.” Anna appears… somewhat pleased? “I’m just not sure how, you know, angels are with that kind of thing.”

“Luckily, I’m not an angel.” She says it wryly. Using sarcasm to cover your worst pain is _definitely_ a trait she picked up from Jo. “When I was an angel, I told myself my love was pure. My devotion to you was as a servant of Heaven. Now that I have the human, physical, _sensual_ awareness,” Oh no, Anna should never purr like that again, it’s half effective and half embarrassing, “I understand that wasn’t so.”

“I, uh,” There’s an ankle creeping up her leg. Who taught her these cheesy moves? Of fucking course… Ruby and her goddamn chick flick nights. “I didn’t want to assume…”

“You assumed I _wouldn’t_ want to discuss it.” Somehow she makes that very logical point with a smoldering pout. “Instead we’ve avoided the topic and made Ruby thoroughly uncomfortable.” The seductive act drops and the real Anna peeks through. “Although I still don’t comprehend why a third wheel is a bad thing. Tricycles—”

Jo does what she should’ve done months ago. She _pounces_.

 

* * *

 

Hell inherited quite a deficit from Crowley’s days. Too consumed by the needs of the angels, he didn’t get a chance to establish himself as a ruler. He got his just desserts in the end. Strapped to a rack and the souls he imprisoned in endless queues now line up to cut him.

What can she say? She admires the classics.

“Make those deals,” She tells her fresh crop of demons, “Wreak some havoc, cause some trouble. Follow your heart, darlings, do what feels good and crush anyone who stands in your way.”

Free Will comes to Hell and the demons rejoice. She’s got the highest approval ratings in centuries.

Meg sinks into her bubble bath in the deepest circle of Hell.

It’s good to be the Queen.

 


End file.
